It required some holding on. At one moment the longitudinal axis of the airship was inclined at an angle of forty-five degrees; at another she was heeling to almost the same angle, the while twisting and writhing like a trapped animal. Now and again she seemed to be enveloped in electric fluid. Dazzling flashes of blue flame played on and along the aluminium envelope, vicious tongues of forked lightning seemed to stab the gas-bag through and through; and doubtless had the ballonets contained hydrogen instead of non-inflammable brodium the "Golden Hind" would have crashed seawards in trailing masses of flame. How long this inferno lasted no one on board had the remotest idea. The flight of time remained a matter of individual calculation. To Kenyon it seemed hours; Bramsdean afterwards confessed that he thought the passage through the storm cloud lasted thirty minutes. In reality only six minutes had elapsed from the time the "Golden Hind" was enveloped in the thunder cloud till the moment when she emerged. It was much like being in a train coming out of a long tunnel. With their eyes still dazed by the vivid flashes the men in the navigation-room became aware that the vapour was growing lighter. They could distinguish the smoke-like rolls of mist as the sunshine penetrated the upper edges of the clouds. Then, no longer beaten by the torrential downpour of hail, the "Golden Hind" shot into a blaze of brilliant sunshine. It seemed too good to be true. For some moments Fosterdyke and his companions simply stared blankly ahead until their eyes grew accustomed to the different conditions. Then Kenyon, who was still officer of the watch, glanced over the shoulder of the helmsman and noted the compass. The lubber’s line was a point west of north. The "Golden Hind" had been practically retracing her course, and might be anything from fifty to a hundred miles farther away from her goal than she had been when the storm enveloped her. Obedient to the action of the vertical rudders the airship swung back on her former course. The altimeter indicated a height of twelve thousand feet, and the "Golden Hind" was still rising. Three thousand feet below was an expanse of wind-torn clouds, no longer showing dark, but of a dazzling whiteness. The crew of the "Golden Hind" were literally looking on the bright side of things. "We’re well above the path of the storm," remarked Fosterdyke, gratefully. "We’ve a lot to be thankful for, but the fact remains we daren’t descend while that stuff’s knocking about. Once in a lifetime is quite enough." Before any of his companions could offer any remark, Murgatroyd, the chief air-mechanic on duty, appeared through the hatchway. "Sorry to have to report, sir," he announced, "that the two after motors are both out of action. Blade smashed on the starboard prop, sir, and the chain-drive on the port prop has snapped. The broken chain is in your cabin, sir." "Who put it there?" asked Fosterdyke.