stark, and grasping tight to the sides of her cot. Her mother and her sisters in Onarga—would they ever know? Cynthia Gail's people—what, at last, would they learn?
A sudden resounding shock, accompanied by a dull rolling sound, vibrated through the air. A great gun was being tested somewhere nearby, Ruth thought. No; they would not do that at night. Then it was an explosion at the chemical works; something had gone wrong. The shocks and the sounds increased. Also they drew nearer. Now guns—small, staccato, barking guns—began firing; shells smashed high in the air. Ruth had dragged her chair below her window and was standing upon it. Ah! Now she could see the flashes and lights in the sky; an air raid was on. There within sight—not a mile off—and fighting, were allied machines! Transcendent exaltation intoxicated her.
The bombs bursting in air!
The stanza of the glorious song of her country sang in her soul with full understanding of its great feeling. An American prisoner long ago had written those wonderful words—written them, she remembered, when lying a captive upon an enemy vessel and when fearing for the fate of the fort manned by his people. But
. . . the rocket's red glare,
The bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night
That our flag was still there.
