Swiftly his ’plane drew alongside Cantor’s machine, passed it, and as it passed Potter looked at his adversary, saw his wide eyes fixed upon him with unbelieving astonishment. Then Cantor was left behind.
Potter mounted, turned, approached again. Flashes of fire spat out from Cantor’s machine, bullets droned harmlessly by.... It was as Potter wished it. He did not fire himself. He was not ready yet, but passed Cantor, circled again and came up from the rear. He was capable, he knew, of circling Cantor’s machine. For every mile Cantor could traverse Potter traversed two.
Now he drew to a position at the side of Cantor’s ’plane again, wing-tip almost touching wing-tip. He could see Cantor’s face distorted by rage and apprehension; saw Cantor lift his arm, saw the spurt of fire from his revolver. The bullet plowed through Potter’s coat behind his shoulders.... Almost simultaneously he answered the fire with his automatic, once, twice, thrice.... He turned in his seat as he passed, but Cantor was still erect, his machine still under control.
Again he repeated the maneuver. Again Cantor fired at point-blank range—and missed. Once more Potter’s automatic spluttered.... Cantor lurched forward, his machine veered, seemed to wabble in the air—and Potter sped away, mounting, circling. As he returned he saw Cantor’s machine careening crazily; saw it dip, plunge, tip perilously with no intelligence to hold it in control.... Then, suddenly, it pointed its nose downward and plunged.... Potter held his breath. He found himself counting, “One—two—three—four—five—six—”
Not like an arrow, not like a plummet, but like a weighted leaf, the aeroplane fell.... Potter leaned far over to watch. Hildegarde, awed in the face of this happening, peered over also, fascinated.... The ’plane seemed to merge with the earth—with the ice of the lake. Then there was a mighty burst of flame, a gigantic, cataclysmic sound which dwarfed the roar of the motor; which seemed to tear the very air into shreds and to threaten to rock the moon in its distant sky.... Potter’s machine rocked and dipped as the blast of air surged upward.... It righted itself and moved onward, smoothly, peacefully—the sole occupant of the sky.
The bombs with which Cantor had meant to devastate a city had let loose their awful force ... harmlessly to the sleeping city.... There would be no need to look for Cantor, for Cantor’s ’plane. They had vanished, been snuffed out by that awful force, wiped clean from existence as if they had never been.
It was a homing flight now, back to a city saved from a peril of which it had been unconscious, of which the major part of it might forever remain unconscious. The thing was done; the high gates had not been forced; the winged guardian had blocked the roars of the sky....
They were descending now, nearing their place of alighting.... Potter, thankful for the moonlight, pointed for the field, the earth leaped up to meet them, touched them, they bounded along its frozen surface....
Potter lifted Hildegarde from her place, carried her into the hangar, himself stiff, aching with the cold. She lay quiet in his arms, her eyes closed, but she was not unconscious; she was keenly conscious.
“I saw it,” she said, her voice a breath. “I was there. I was a part of it.”