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world.” It is interesting to note that the total number of horns is thirteen, apparently symbolical of the thirteen nations.

      In 1920 the Very Reverend Dr. Arnold foretold that “there would be a great Twenty Years’ War in which the whole world would be involved. One great Emperor would perish in that war, three great Empires would fall, ninety-nine capital cities would be destroyed, and the last battle of that war would be the last battle of the century.”

      To the same year belongs “The Vision of Jonathan” (printed in Stockholm): “War and pestilence will lay waste nine-and-ninety countries, and nine-and-ninety kingdoms will vanish and rise again. The last battle will last nine-and-ninety hours, and will be so bloody that all the victors will be able to find room in the shade of one birch-tree.”

      A German popular prophecy dating from 1923 speaks of the battle on the Birkenfeld (Birch field).

      More than two hundred similar prophetic documents of the period between 1845 and 1944 have been preserved. In forty-eight of these the number “thirteen” occurs; in seventy of them the “birch-tree” appears; in fifteen merely the “tree.” It may therefore be concluded that the last battle took place in the neighbourhood of a birch-tree. Who took part in the struggle we do not know, but there were altogether only thirteen men left alive out of the various armies, and they presumably lay down after the battle in the shade of a birch-tree. That moment saw the end of the Greatest War.

      It is, however, possible that the “birch” is brought in symbolically, instead of a place-name. There are one hundred and seven places in the country of the Czechs alone containing the Czech word for birch, such as Brezany, Brezovice, and Brezolupy. Then there is the German Birke and names like Birkenberg, Birkenfeld, Birkenhaid, Birkenhammer, Birkicht, Birkental, etc.; or the English Birkenhead, Birchington, Birchanger, and so on; or the French Boulainvilliers, Boulay, etc. Thus the number of towns, villages, and localities where the last battle in all probability took place is narrowed down to a few thousand (as long as we confine ourselves to Europe, which certainly has a prior claim to the Last Battle). Individual scientific research will establish where it occurred. Who won it cannot possibly be determined.

      But perhaps after all—the fancy is alluring—there did stand near the scene of the last act of the world-tragedy a slender silvery birch. Perhaps a lark sang above the battle-field and a white butterfly fluttered over the heads of the combatants. And look, by this time there is hardly anyone left to kill! It is a hot October day, and one hero after another steps aside, turns his back upon the battle-field, eases himself, and lies down longing for peace in the shadow of the birch-tree. At last the whole thirteen of them are lying there, all the survivors of the Last Battle. One lays his weary head on his neighbour’s boots, another rests his on the first man’s back, undisturbed by his breathing. The last thirteen soldiers left in the world are asleep beneath a birch-tree.

      Towards evening they waken, look at each other with suspicion, and reach for their weapons. And then one of them—history will never learn his name—says, “Oh, damn it, boys, let’s chuck it!”

      “Right you are, mate,” says the second man with relief, laying aside his weapon.

      “Give us a bit of bacon then, fathead,” the third one asks with a certain gentleness.

      The fourth man returns, “Crikey, I could do with a smoke. Hasn’t anybody got a——?”

      “Let’s clear off, boys,” urges the fifth. “We’re not going to have any more of it.”

      “I’ll give you a cigarette,” says the sixth, “but you’ll have to give me a bit of bread.”

      “We’re going home, boys . . . think of it . . . home,” the seventh one cries.

      “Is your old woman expecting you?” the eighth man asks.

      “My God, it’s six years since I slept in a proper bed,” sighs the ninth.

      “What a mug’s game it was, lads!” says the tenth man, spitting disgustedly.

      “It was that!” the eleventh replies, “but we’ve done with it now.”

      “We’ve done with it,” repeats the twelfth man. “We’re not such fools. Let’s go home, mates!”

      “Oh, but I’m glad it’s all over,” concludes the thirteenth, turning over to lie on the other side.

      And such, one can well imagine, was the end of the Greatest War.

      XXX

      THE END OF EVERYTHING

      Many years went by. Brych the stoker, now the proprietor of a locksmith’s business, was sitting in the Damohorsky tavern, reading a copy of the People’s Journal.

      “The liver sausages will be ready in a minute,” announced the landlord, emerging from the kitchen. And bless me if it wasn’t old Jan Binder, who used to own the merry-go-round. He had grown fat and no longer wore his striped jersey; nevertheless it was he!

      “There’s no hurry,” Mr. Brych answered slowly. “Father Jost hasn’t turned up yet. Nor Rejzek either.”

      “And—how is Mr. Kuzenda getting along?” Jan Binder inquired.

      “Oh, well, you know. He’s not very grand. He’s one of the best men breathing, Mr. Binder.”

      “He is, indeed,” assented the innkeeper. “I don’t know . . . Mr. Brych . . . what about taking him a few of the liver sausages with my compliments? They’re first class, Mr. Brych, and if you’d be so kind . . .”

      “Why, with pleasure, Mr. Binder. He’ll be delighted to think you remember him. Of course I will. With pleasure!”

      “Praised be the Lord!” came a voice from the doorway, and Canon Jost stepped into the room, his cheeks ruddy with the cold, and hung up his hat and fur coat.

      “Good evening, your Reverence,” responded Mr. Brych. “We’ve waited for you—we’ve waited.”

      Father Jost pursed his lips contentedly and rubbed his stiffened hands. “Well, sir, what’s in the papers, what have they got to say to-day?”

      “I was just reading this: ‘The President of the Republic has appointed that youthful savant, Dr. Blahous, Lecturer at the University, to be Assistant Professor.’ You remember, Canon, it’s that Blahous who once wrote an article about Mr. Kuzenda.”

      “Aha, aha,” said Father Jost, wiping his little spectacles. “I know, I know, the atheist. They are a lot of infidels at the University. And you’re another, Mr. Brych.”

      “Come, his Reverence will pray for us, I know,” said Mr. Binder. “He’ll want us in heaven to make up the card-party. Well, your Reverence, two and one?”

      “Yes, of course, two and one.”

      Mr. Binder opened the kitchen door and shouted:

      “Two liver sausages and one blood-sausage.”

      “ ’Evening!” growled Rejzek, the journalist, entering the room. “It’s cold, friends.”

      “It’s a very pleasant evening,” chirped Mr. Binder. “We don’t get company like this every day.”

      “Well, what’s the news?” inquired Father Jost gaily. “What’s going on in the editorial sanctum? Ah, yes, I used to write for the papers myself in my young days.”

      “By the way, that fellow Blahous mentioned me in the paper too that time,” said Mr. Brych. “I’ve still got the cutting somewhere. ‘The Apostle of Kuzenda’s Sect,’ or something like that, he called me. Yes, yes, those were the days!”

      “Let’s have supper,” ordered Mr. Rejzek. Mr. Binder and his daughter were already setting the sausages on the table. They were still sizzling, covered with frothing bubbles

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