also gazing out; and she knew that the helpless impulse which stirred her with desire to be out there above to fly and fight was surging through him a thousand times intensified. She could feel even Hubert Lennon twist and sway at struggle with that impulse; how much more was Gerry Hull's lithe, powerful body—that strong, rhythmically moving form which had carried her—straining now to join his comrades there above and to strike.
A flare of flame, not sharp and jagged like the burst of shells, nor yet the streak of a rocket, nor like the glaring spot of a signal light, wavered across the stars. Something clouded it—smoke. It flung free from the smoke and dived, flaring bigger and brighter, trailing behind it a streamer of black which blanketed both rockets beyond and the stars; it dived on, burning.
Ruth's heart throbbed like a hammer in her throat. "Chute d'un aeroplane!" the French women cried.
"Fall of an airplane!"
It had been hit! The gasoline tank had ignited; it was going down in flames. Whether friend or foe, no one on the train could know. Cries reached Ruth from other compartments in the car. Everyone was seeing it as it dropped down now faster and faster, its head burning whiter; its streamer of smoke longer and broader before the stars. The line of roofs and chimneys off to the south, which had shown in glaring silhouette, sucked it from sight. It had crashed; and a shudder shocked through Ruth as she pictured the pilot. She wanted Gerry Hull beside her to know that he was safe; her hand groped in the dark, without her will. It encountered Hubert's and found his trembling and cold.
