Poor lady, she little knew who her son really was, and how he had himself unwittingly hurried her to the grave.
Mrs. Hartmann passed away about an hour later. Lena and I reverently kissed the aged and venerable forehead, and paid the last tributes to our friend. Then leaving the death-chamber, I took Lena into a morning room and acquainted her with my extraordinary experiences since we had parted. She listened with the keenest interest, and was appalled to think that Hartmann—the anarchist assailant of London—could be the son of the poor harmless lady whose body lay so still in the adjoining chamber. Sometimes indeed she seemed quite unable to follow me, and bent searching glances on me as if to make sure that I was not after all romancing. No doubt my tale sounded fantastic; but conceive the man who could “romance” on so peculiarly solemn an occasion!
“But did you not see the aëronef yourself?” I asked.
“No, we were hopelessly jammed up in the crowd near Whitehall. The wildest rumours were afloat, fires were breaking out everywhere, cannon booming, and the mob breaking into shops and stores. It was impossible to see far owing to the smoke.”
A bright trail of light flashed down the heavens to the south-west.
“Look, Lena! look! there is the _Attila_ itself! Now will you believe me?” The deluge of fire had not yet ceased to fall! We stood riveted with horror to the window.
“Do you see the search-light glowing on her bow—the blazing petroleum splashing down from her sides on to the house-tops? Ah! there will be a pretty story to tell of this in the morning.”
Lena could only gasp in answer. The _Attila_ with her one electric eye stood out sharply against the crimson-hued clouds, with trails of fire lengthening out behind her. And as the burning liquid fell, one could see the flames from the gutted houses leap upwards as if to greet it. Whole acres of buildings were ablaze, and one dared not think what that deluge must mean for the desperate mobs below. And no human art could avail here. In this extraordinary vessel the vices and powers of man had been brought to a common focus. The _Attila_ seemed mad with the irresponsibility of strength, and yet to the captain of that fell craft, now suspended in mid-air over the doomed city, I had somehow to transmit the letter of his dead mother. The thought struck us both at once.