"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 staring at one another.
There was no act of tenderness between them, no embrace, no parting word. The bare thought of personal love was swept aside by the tremendous necessities of his position. Her face expressed amazement and acceptance. A little movement of her hands gave him to his fate.
He turned towards the man in yellow. "I am ready," he said.
