The baby-blimp of last resource was lowering toward the doubtful safety of the surface of the sea. The pilot stood on the bridge, idle for the first time since the gas-bag had been struck. Evidently he expected to go down with his ship as had so many captains before him. John Cabot clung to the deck rail as if contemplating a suicidal plunge. Forward, the Marquis d’Elie stood equipped with the parachute suit won by Catherine’s trick, but a lack of trust in it seemed to restrain him from the life-leap. Too long he hesitated. John Cabot, maddened anew by sight of the Frenchman’s superior chance, leaped the space between them; from behind dragged him down on the blistering deck. There followed a brief struggle--an exchange of attacks, a roll _en masse_ and the separation of a knock-out blow from John. As his fingers loosened the last buckle of the safety suit, the craft gave a violent lurch. The foreigner’s unconscious form, far heavier than air, was flung over the rail to a drop from which there could be no awakening. As the air-liner straightened for the last time, John Cabot released the clutch that by a narrow margin had saved him from following d’Elie and got to his feet. A glance at the blazing bag above, their one support, convinced him that seconds were precious. His eyes, however, lowering, met the level, contemptuous gaze of the pilot. The soul of Dolores shuddered with shame for the man she would have sworn to be brave. Then awoke in her that mothering, protective instinct which lives in women long after pride has been crucified. There still might be time to save John against himself. Remembrance of her own reluctance to turn on the jets that last evening on earth filled her heart with mercy. She would risk appeal to the Master Mind. “I am sickened with this spectacle, sire. Human nature is strong, but not so strong as you. Show your power by throttling this Okeh devil and conquering the mortal’s mood. Come, I challenge you!” When she turned to enforce the argument, she saw that His Highness had not heard. The visible of him was lurched back in his seat, enraged determination on the face, lips set in a snarl, fiend fingers clutching the high forehead. But that which had made him Prince of the Power of the Air--his dauntless determination--had gone from him. Dolores did not need to be told what had happened. Impatient lest John Cabot’s personal devil should fail, Satan had projected his own spirit to take in charge the mortal’s fall. His will, not John’s, had incited that struggle for the life-suit. He would accomplish his worst. The conviction moved her mouth in a suppressed sob. Drawn by the ghoulish fascination that makes earthlings cling to the clay of their dead, she clung to the balustrade and strained her eyes toward the pool.