His wife smiled at him encouragingly and held his arm more tightly.

Both of them knew that the garden was dying.

Three evenings later, as he had estimated (though sooner than he secretly hoped), Count Axel plucked another flower from the time garden.

When he first looked over the wall the approaching rabble filled the distant half of the plain, stretching across the horizon in an unbroken mass.  He thought he could hear the low, fragmentary sounds of voices carried across the empty air, a sullen murmur punctuated by cries and shouts, but quickly told himself that he had imagined them.  Luckily, his wife was at her harpsichord, and the rich contrapuntal patterns of a Bach fugue cascaded lightly across the terrace, masking other noises.

Between the house and the horizon the plain was divided into four huge swells, the crest of each one clearly visible in the slanting light.  Axel had promised himself that he would never count them, but the number was too small to remain unobserved, particularly when it so obviously marked the progress of the advancing army.  By now the forward line had passed the first crest and was well on its way to the second; the main bulk of the throng pressed behind it, hiding the crest and the even vaster concourse spreading from the horizon.  Looking to left and right of the central body, Axel could see the apparently limitless extent of the army.  What had seemed at first to be the central mass was no more than a minor advance guard, one of many similar arms reaching across the plain.  The true centre had not yet emerged but, from the rate of extension, Axel estimated that when it finally reached the plain it would completely cover every metre of ground.

Axel searched for any large vehicles or machines, but all was amorphous and uncoordinated as ever.  There were no banners or flags, no mascots or pike-bearers.  Heads bowed, the multitude pressed on, unaware of the sky.