The man upon whom he had sprang, surprised though he was, resolved into dynamic action--soundless action. Locked together they rolled over and over. Potter felt the impact as another man leaped upon them--but that other, in the murk of the night and the fog, could not tell friend from foe. Again Potter shouted. There were answering shouts. One antagonist tore away and plunged into the mist; the other, thrusting a savage knee against Potter's chest, broke the grip of his arms and rolled out of reach. Both sprang to their feet, one in flight, the other in pursuit. But Potter stopped. He remembered. Close beside him spluttered that fuse. He leaped upon it, seized it, hurled the deadly thing toward which that spark was crawling, far in the direction of the lake.... Now he was surrounded by men--his own men.... And then came a mighty _cough_, as if the universe itself had coughed with all the strength of its hidden forces. There was an instant of light and fire, the impact of an irresistible energy. Stunned, deafened, blinded, Potter was hurled to the ground.... "My Gawd!..." said a voice. Potter struggled to his feet and stood reeling. "Are you there?... Is any one hurt?" he asked. The men crowded about him, shaken, trembling. They went inside and stood staring at one another. "My Gawd!... said Cockney Tom, again. "They got through us," Cassidy said, stupidly. "Most got yuh," Mort said, and cursed, "and us standin' around like bats." "It's all right," Potter said, unsteadily. "It didn't come off." Tom brought lanterns and they went out again into the night. Between the hangar and the lake was a crater such as a dozen men might have dug in a day of hard laboring. They circled it in widening circles. Potter stooped to pick up a hat--and it was wet. At a distance Tom cried aloud, and they gathered about him, awed to silence, for he held out mutely a human arm.... CHAPTER XV Tears did not sit well on Hildegarde von Essen; one did not expect them of her. Somehow it would have been more congruous to see her emotions using some other outlet--swearing with intent, incisive daintiness or dashing the bric-à-brac on the floor. Yet she was crying, not dismally, with girlish abandon, but with a certain dynamic intensity, a clumsiness, if you will, that bespoke neglect of practice in the accomplishment. She had returned half an hour ago from Potter's hangar, from listening to his claim upon her love, from feeling the demand of his arms about her, from a glad moment of surrendering her lips to his lips, and from the blind joy of translating her heart into words.... Thirsting on desert sands, she had seen in mirage a green oasis where welled up a never-failing spring of love; or, rather, it was as if she had seen a veritable oasis, a living spring, and by her own black magic had transformed it to mirage.... She had put away the man she loved and declared herself defiled!