With the coming of dawn, the shadow had faded, and the watchers' eyes
had been turned ahead for some first sight of the out-riders of
the attacking fleets. Bohannan, a little nervous in spite of his
well-seasoned fighting-blood, had smoked a couple of cigars in the
sheltered gallery, pacing up and down with coat-collar about his ears
and with hands thrust deep in pockets. The Master, likewise muffled,
had refused all proffers of tobacco and had contented himself with a
few khat leaves.
Silence had, for the most part, reigned between them. Up here in the
gallery, conversation was not easy. The hurricane of _Nissr's_ flight
shrieked at times with shrill stridor and with whistlings as of a
million witches bound for some infernal Sabbath on the Matterhorn. A
good deal of vibration and of shuddering whipped the wing-tip, too;
all was different, here, from the calm warmth, comfort, and security
of the fuselage.
The men seemed standing on the very pinion-feathers of some fabled
roc, sweeping through space. Above, below, complete and overwhelming
vacancy clutched for them. The human is not yet born who can stand
thus upon the tip of such a plane, and feel himself wholly at ease.
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