The dark hurry and tumult, the stress and vehemence of the
battle rushed in and overwhelmed them. They were no longer persons but
mere spectators, mere impressions of a tremendous convulsion. They became
unreal even to themselves, miniatures of personality, indescribably
small, and the two antagonistic realities, the only realities in being
were first the city, that throbbed and roared yonder in a belated frenzy
of defence and secondly the aeroplanes hurling inexorably towards them
over the round shoulder of the world.
There came a sudden stir outside, a running to and fro, and cries. The
girl stood up, speechless, incredulous.
Metallic voices were shouting "Victory!" Yes it was "Victory!"
Bursting through the curtains appeared the man in yellow, startled and
dishevelled with excitement, "Victory," he cried, "victory! The people
are winning. Ostrog's people have collapsed."
She rose. "Victory?"
"What do you mean?" asked Graham. "Tell me! _What_?"
"We have driven them out of the under galleries at Norwood, Streatham is
afire and burning wildly, and Roehampton is ours. _Ours_!--and we have
taken the monoplane that lay thereon."
A shrill bell rang. An agitated grey-headed man appeared from the room of
the Ward Leaders. "It is all over," he cried.
"What matters it now that we have Roehampton? The aeroplanes have been
sighted at Boulogne!"
"The Channel!" said the man in yellow. He calculated swiftly.
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