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 as 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.
