Peter jerked up the stifling cloth; felt cool air on his eyes, sweet air in his nostrils; failed for a second to realize the miracle. Then, instinctively, he knew that his leap to horse had poised him above the heavy gas-cloud, that he was looking down on it, as a man riding the fields at dusk looks down on the ground mist. . . . But even as Peter looked, the tail of the poison-belt blew clear!
For a full minute, he sat his horse—motionless, amazed, still afraid to breathe. The horror had come and gone like some bestial dream. Guns were still flashing and roaring; the sky still blazed; Klaxons howled all round him. Jelks’ squat figure, cowled in its goggling mask, Queen Bess’s bridle over its arm, stood within three yards of his stirrup.
Little Willie began coughing; fidgeted for a second; stood still again.
“You can take that thing off,” said Peter.
“Beg pardon, sir,” answered a muffled voice.
“You can take that damn thing off,” roared Peter.
Fumblingly, the man removed his helmet. “Was it gas, sir?” he asked.
“Very much so,” began Peter; “and the next time you bring me a gas-helmet, I wish to Christ. . . .” He bit off the end of the sentence. After all, the fault lay with himself, not with his man.
They waited half-an-hour; heard the shriek of the Klaxons die away to silence, the roar of the guns to an intermittent crackling.
“I think we might go on now,” said Peter. “It doesn’t seem to have hurt the horses, thank goodness.”