The exclamation was echoed by a shout from the ruins.  The rattling sound of the green weapons drifted across the intervening gulf to Graham, and, looking down, he saw a number of black and yellow uniforms running along one of the galleries that lay open to the air below the promontory upon which Ostrog stood.  They fired as they ran at men unseen, and then emerged a number of pale blue figures in pursuit.  These minute fighting figures had the oddest effect; they seemed as they ran like little model soldiers in a toy.  This queer appearance of a house cut open gave that struggle amidst furniture and passages a quality of unreality.  It was perhaps two hundred yards away from him, and very nearly fifty above the heads in the ruins below.  The black and yellow men ran into an open archway, and turned and fired a volley.  One of the blue pursuers striding forward close to the edge, flung up his arms, staggered sideways, seemed to Graham’s sense to hang over the edge for several seconds, and fell headlong down.  Graham saw him strike a projecting corner, fly out, head over heels, head over heels, and vanish behind the red arm of the building machine.

And then a shadow came between Graham and the sun.  He looked up and the sky was clear, but he knew the little monoplane had passed.  Ostrog had vanished.  The man in yellow thrust before him, zealous and perspiring, pointing and blatant.

“They are grounding!” cried the man in yellow.  “They are grounding.  Tell the people to fire at him.  Tell them to fire at him!”

Graham could not understand.  He heard loud voices repeating these enigmatical orders.

Suddenly he saw the prow of the monoplane come gliding over the edge of the ruins and stop with a jerk.  In a moment Graham understood that the thing had grounded in order that Ostrog might escape by it.  He saw a blue haze climbing out of the gulf, perceived that the people below him were now firing up at the projecting stem.

A man beside him cheered hoarsely, and he saw that the blue rebels had gained the archway that had been contested by the men in black and yellow a moment before, and were running in a continual stream along the open passage.

And suddenly the monoplane slipped over the edge of the Council House and fell like a diving swallow.  It dropped, tilting at an angle of forty-five degrees, so steeply that it seemed to Graham, it seemed perhaps to most of those below, that it could not possibly rise again.

It fell so closely past him that he could see Ostrog clutching the guides of the seat, with his grey hair streaming; see the white-faced aeronaut wrenching over the lever that turned the machine upward.  He heard the apprehensive vague cry of innumerable men below.

Graham clutched the railing before him and gasped.  The second seemed an age.  The lower vane of the monoplane passed within an ace of touching the people, who yelled and screamed and trampled one another below.