Too long he hesitated. John Cabot, maddened anew by sight of the Frenchman’s superior chance, leaped the space between them; from behind dragged him down on the blistering deck. There followed a brief struggle—an exchange of attacks, a roll en masse and the separation of a knock-out blow from John. As his fingers loosened the last buckle of the safety suit, the craft gave a violent lurch. The foreigner’s unconscious form, far heavier than air, was flung over the rail to a drop from which there could be no awakening.
As the air-liner straightened for the last time, John Cabot released the clutch that by a narrow margin had saved him from following d’Elie and got to his feet. A glance at the blazing bag above, their one support, convinced him that seconds were precious. His eyes, however, lowering, met the level, contemptuous gaze of the pilot.
The soul of Dolores shuddered with shame for the man she would have sworn to be brave. Then awoke in her that mothering, protective instinct which lives in women long after pride has been crucified. There still might be time to save John against himself. Remembrance of her own reluctance to turn on the jets that last evening on earth filled her heart with mercy. She would risk appeal to the Master Mind.
“I am sickened with this spectacle, sire. Human nature is strong, but not so strong as you. Show your power by throttling this Okeh devil and conquering the mortal’s mood. Come, I challenge you!”
When she turned to enforce the argument, she saw that His Highness had not heard. The visible of him was lurched back in his seat, enraged determination on the face, lips set in a snarl, fiend fingers clutching the high forehead. But that which had made him Prince of the Power of the Air—his dauntless determination—had gone from him.
Dolores did not need to be told what had happened. Impatient lest John Cabot’s personal devil should fail, Satan had projected his own spirit to take in charge the mortal’s fall. His will, not John’s, had incited that struggle for the life-suit. He would accomplish his worst. The conviction moved her mouth in a suppressed sob. Drawn by the ghoulish fascination that makes earthlings cling to the clay of their dead, she clung to the balustrade and strained her eyes toward the pool.
Death is the mortgage on life. John Cabot’s revolt against payment showed in his face. Craven impulses clutched him. At his ear were the lips of the Master Insinuator. Facile fingers seemed to aid his with the parachute buckles. Yet he had seen himself in the pilot’s contempt. He was putting up a fight. His life-long habit of self-respect was strong. The pilot was father to a motherless child—a girl. He should be saved.
With the Thing which had attacked him—the fiend called Fear—John grappled. His knees shook, his jaw sagged, his eyes bulged from the fetid suggestions which, evidently, were gassing his will. If the pilot went down with the air-craft, he never could tell.
Dolores, too, shook with fear. She knew what John did not know—just who was opposing him. Indignation over the unequal struggle steadied her; cleared her thoughts. Why was all the power given to sin and none to rightness? By what method had the Foul Fiend projected his spirit to Earth to slay the courage of the man she would have suffered any death to save? Surely, what could be done for evil purposes could be done for good! Why was will given to woman if not to augment the will of man—why her mite of strength if not to incite greater strength? John needed her.
From fear lest he fail was born determination that he win. He was a good and great man, John Cabot. He had lived aright and deserved so to die. The hate of Hell was not stronger than the love of her heart. What The Destroyer had done, she—John’s savior—also must do.