“The swinging bridge has been thrown down!” said Tradmos.
Light after light flashed up in different parts of the city, but they were so small and so far apart that they seemed to add to the darkness rather than to lessen it.
“The moon, it will rise!” cried the princess.
“It cannot,” said Tradmos in his beard, “at least not for several hours.”
“They will kill my father,” she said despondently, “they always hold him responsible for any accident.”
“They cannot reach him,” consoled Tradmos. “He is safe for the present at least.”
“Is it possible to make the repairs needed?”
“I don't know. When the accident happened long ago the sun was just rising.”
“Has it stopped?”
“I think not; it has simply gone out; the electric connection has, in some way, been cut off.”