Potter felt the splendor of it; it uplifted him. Soaring there above the lake, he knew a strange sense of detachment from the fetters of the flesh. He felt, not like a man, liable to weaknesses, ills, death, but like an immortal upon a mission for Olympus. He was not afraid of the issue. He was confident. His exhilaration was not of the sort that makes men shout and sing; it was as if some great, glowing dignity rested upon him, to be worn with worthiness. The fate of a city was in his hands, and he rejoiced to have it there.... On he flew, steadily mounting as to some appointed watch-tower. He would mount to a height from which his view would be limited only by the power of his eyes. Nothing could move upon that lake, or in the air above that lake, that could escape him. He rejoiced in his motor. It did not falter, it was _true_; if great events must depend upon a tiny mechanism, then this mechanism was worthy of the responsibility.... Almost alone he had created it and given it to his country. It was right that he should be proud. He hovered and circled, his eyes ever toward that distant island, ever watching, vigilant. Hildegarde sat as vigilant as he, as thrilled as he. She was almost happy.... How distant seemed the squalid events of her life, the tragedy of the day! She, too, was an immortal, experiencing the privileges of immortality. Her heart was high, her soul was confident. It was a better, a greater thing than mere happiness.... The night was still, clear, cold. Ten thousand feet above the earth the cold was indescribable; it gnawed through their garments, froze the very moisture in their eyes, yet, somehow, they were glad to endure it; to endure was part of the service demanded of them.... So they hovered and watched.... Hildegarde touched Potter's arm and pointed. His eyes had seen it too--that speck against the luminous dome of the sky. They watched it, uncertain if it were the thing they awaited.... Potter shut off his motor, and the stillness left them aghast. It was unreal, uncanny.... They listened. Faintly, a shade this side of inaudibility, was wafted to them a rhythmic splutter, growing stronger, stronger.... It told its story. Again the roar of the motor engulfed them, and Potter swerved toward the oncoming speck, flying high, maintaining a position thousands of feet above his unsuspecting prey. Presently the other aeroplane became distinct, a black silhouette, the ghost of an aeroplane traversing a worldless sky.... On it came. But Potter knew he was rushing to meet it with twice the speed of its own approach.... He had not been seen. The roar of Cantor's motor concealed the fury of Potter's machine. Now Cantor was below them, almost directly below them.... The moment had arrived!