The aeroplanes had come to earth.
John slid off the boulder and ran down the side of the mountain to the
clump of trees, where the two girls were awake and waiting for him.
Kismine sprang to her feet, the jewels in her pockets jingling, a
question on her parted lips, but instinct told John that there was no
time for words. They must get off the mountain without losing a
moment. He seized a hand of each, and in silence they threaded the
tree-trunks, washed with light now and with the rising mist. Behind
them from the valley came no sound at all, except the complaint of the
peacocks far away and the pleasant of morning.
When they had gone about half a mile, they avoided the park land and
entered a narrow path that led over the next rise of ground. At the
highest point of this they paused and turned around. Their eyes rested
upon the mountainside they had just left--oppressed by some dark sense
of tragic impendency.
Clear against the sky a broken, white-haired man was slowly descending
the steep slope, followed by two gigantic and emotionless negroes, who
carried a burden between them which still flashed and glittered in the
sun. Half-way down two other figures joined them--John could see that
they were Mrs. Washington and her son, upon whose arm she leaned. The
aviators had clambered from their machines to the sweeping lawn in
front of the chateau, and with rifles in hand were starting up the
diamond mountain in skirmishing formation.
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