She waited. Not one pat on the back was vouchsafed by an approving Conscience. The indicator of the dial slowly travelled in the direction of the blitherer. Patrine shut her hot, dry eyes, and began to conjure up the day that had gone over. Its sweetness was rendered infinitely sweeter, its bitterness a hundredfold more poignant by the knowledge that it was the last, the very last.
If she lived to be old, old, old, she knew she would never live to forget Seasheere. The smell of the hot thyme and sun-baked grasses of the cliffs, the rhythmic frrsh! of the salt waves upon its shingle, the shrill piping of its gulls, and pale blue of its skies would never fade, never cease, never be silent, never alter.... For on Seasheere cliffs her Wind of Joy had blown for the last time.
CHAPTER LXIII
BAWNE FINDS A FRIEND
The machine that could hover like Sherbrand's "Bird of War" had come down in the Market Place. A big grey two-seater monoplane, with the rounded cleft bird-tail and wings of the German Taube type. You could see a number on its side and three big black Maltese crosses, and the profile heads of pilot and passenger showing up in strong relief against the blackened ruins of the Town Hall.
A bomb hung in its wire cage-holder on the visible side of the fuselage. It struck Franky that the airman must be profoundly sure of himself, or culpably reckless to have come down before getting rid of the thing. A swivel-mounting like a barless capital A supported a machine-gun above the radius of the tractor, and well within reach of the pilot's hand.
The pilot got down. He was tall and big, with a red moustache; a man whose natural height and bulk were so augmented by the padded helmet topped with the now-raised goggles, the pneumatic jacket girt in by a broad band of webbing, supporting a brace of large revolvers, and the heavy bandolier he carried, that the figure of his companion, scrambling after him, seemed that of a mere dwarf.
The man who saw, per medium of the rakishly-angled looking-glass yet hanging on the wall of the wrecked parlour, conceived a horror of the Troll-like creature in its big helmet, and the full-sized oilskins that hung in folds about its diminutive body, the skirts reaching nearly to the ground. When the two passed beyond the mirror's area of reflection, the doubt whether they might not have discovered his whereabouts and be stealthily creeping up from the rear to attack him, made him shudder, and brought the perspiration starting in the hollows of his sunken temples and cheeks.
Minutes passed. He waited with his eyes upon the mirror. Someone was approaching from the direction of the Market Place, keeping well under the broken walls of the houses fringing the narrow trottoir. Where an avalanche of tiles and brickwork had fallen, he must perforce skirt the obstacle, and thus for an instant be reflected in the glass. Meanwhile the sound of nearing footsteps—sometimes muffled in thick dust, or clicking over cobblestones, or tripping and stumbling among bricks and rubble—grew more distinct. The red-moustached giant could not walk so lightly. It must be the Troll—could be no one but the Troll! The suspense of waiting had tensed into unbearable agony when the sound of a voice crying broke out in the deathly silence of the place.
"Oh, oh!" Like a woman or a child's uncontrolled wailing. "Oh—the poor men! Oh, the poor women and the li-ittle ch-ildren! Oh!" and da capo, working up to a crescendo of agony, and dying away in heartbreaking sobs. It was so strange—not that there should be weeping in these razed and ravaged streets, but that the voice that wept should be a voice of England—that it begot in the helpless man who heard doubts of his own sanity, and a reckless desire to dissipate such doubts. He heard himself call out: "Who is crying there?"