March thought suddenly of the signs of the last days and
knew he was looking at the apocalyptic meteor of something like a
Day of judgment.
Far up in the infinite heavens the rocket drooped and sprang into
scarlet stars. For a moment the whole landscape out to the sea and
back to the crescent of the wooded hills was like a lake of ruby
light, of a red strangely rich and glorious, as if the world were
steeped in wine rather than blood, or the earth were an earthly
paradise, over which paused forever the sanguine moment of morning.
"God save England!" cried Fisher, with a tongue like the peal of a
trumpet. "And now it is for God to save."
As darkness sank again over land and sea, there came another sound;
far away in the passes of the hills behind them the guns spoke like
the baying of great hounds. Something that was not a rocket, that
came not hissing but screaming, went over Harold March's head and
expanded beyond the mound into light and deafening din, staggering
the brain with unbearable brutalities of noise. Another came, and
then another, and the world was full of uproar and volcanic vapor
and chaotic light. The artillery of the West country and the Irish
had located the great enemy battery, and were pounding it to pieces.
In the mad excitement of that moment March peered through the storm,
looking again for the long lean figure that stood beside the stand
of the rocket.
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