"
He turned to the old man in yellow. "Tell them to put it upon the
guides."
The man in yellow hesitated.
"What do you mean to do?" cried Helen.
"This monoplane--it is a chance--."
"You don't mean--?"
"To fight--yes. To fight in the air. I have thought before--. A big
aeroplane is a clumsy thing. A resolute man--!"
"But--never since flying began--" cried the man in yellow.
"There has been no need. But now the time has come. Tell them now--send
them my message--to put it upon the guides. I see now something to do. I
see now why I am here!"
The old man dumbly interrogated the man in yellow nodded, and
hurried out.
Helen made a step towards Graham. Her face was white. "But, Sire!--How
can one fight? You will be killed."
"Perhaps. Yet, not to do it--or to let some one else attempt it--."
"You will be killed," she repeated.
"I've said my word. Do you not see? It may save--London!"
He stopped, he could speak no more, he swept the alternative aside by a
gesture, and they stood looking at one another.
They were both clear that he must go. There was no step back from these
towering heroisms.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. She came towards him with a curious movement
of her hands, as though she felt her way and could not see; she seized
his hand and kissed it.
"To wake," she cried, "for this!"
He held her clumsily for a moment, and kissed the hair of her bowed head,
and then thrust her away, and turned towards the man in yellow.
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