The Squire threw the window open to the April sunset.

The low light was shining through the woods, and on the reddening tops of the beeches.

There was a sparkle of leaf here and there, and already a 'livelier emerald' showed in the grass.
Suddenly a low booming sound--repeated--and repeated.
'Guns ?' said the Squire, listening.
Elizabeth reminded him of the new artillery camp beyond Fallerton.
But the sounds had transformed the April evening.

The woods, the grass, the wood-pigeons in the park had disappeared.

The thoughts of both the on-lookers had gone across the sea to that hell of smoke and fire, in which their race--in which England!--stood at bay.