Next moment a coloured light leaped from the Night-Flier, and in return a storm of tracers came streaming and pelting about her. Another light, and another storm of bullets, and a couple of search-lights swept round, groped a moment, and caught them. "Your gun!" screamed the Pilot. "I'm goin' for the light." The big machine swerved, ducked, and jerked out in a long side-slip. At first the light held her fast and the bullets came up in a regular tornado of whistling, spitting flame and smoke, most of them hissing venomously past, but many hitting with sharp smacks and cracks and in showers of breaking sparks on wings and frame. But another wild swoop and dive and upward turn shook the light off for a moment, and then the Night-Flier put her nose down and drove straight at the point from which the sword of light stabbed up. As they steadied and held straight, the Observer swung his gun round, took steady aim, and opened fire. The light fumbled a moment, lit on them again, and poured its blinding glare full in their faces. The Pilot, his eyes closed to narrow slits, went straight at the glare, and the Observer, better equipped and prepared, jerked a pair of smoked glass goggles down off his forehead and reopened fire. The light vanished with a snap, and instantly the Pilot pulled the stick in and hoicked hard up. A thousand feet up, with the darkness criss-crossed by waving search-lights, the air alive with bullets, the ground flaming and spurting with Archie fire, he shut off engine a moment and yelled, "Good shot! Come on--try another."