But although Gisela’s long slumbering nerves had had their revenge last night, they had given up the fight when she had destroyed their only ally, and these last protesting vibrations were very brief.  Her eyes fell on the ranks of women standing in the wide Maximilianstrasse,—­a street a mile long and seventy-five feet across—­undisturbed by the turmoil they had anticipated, calmly awaiting her orders.  The obsession passed, and after a brief tribute of hatred to her imagination, which was, after all, one root of her power, she turned and glanced critically at her three companions.  Marie, looking like a little gray gnome, was dancing about and waving her arms in ecstasy.  Heloise, her long blonde hair hanging about her fine French face, was gazing out with rapt eyes and lips apart, as if every sense were drinking in the vision of a Germany delivered.  Mimi was standing with her arms akimbo, nodding her head emphatically.

“Great work,” she said as she met Gisela’s stern eyes.  “Better go up to the wireless.”

They ran rapidly up to the roof and looked into the little room.  The girl who sat there nodded but did not speak.  Her face was gray and tense, but there was no evidence of despair.  Gisela and Mimi stood motionless for what seemed to them a stifling hour, but at last the operator laid down the receiver.

“All,” she said.  “Every one.”

“The Rhine Valley?”

The girl nodded, then rolled her jacket into a pillow, lay down before the door and immediately fell asleep.  It had been a night of ghastly suspense.  Another operator was already running up the stair to her relief.

“Fate!” cried Mimi.  “The same fate that sank the Armada and drove Napoleon to Moscow.  You had the vision—­”

“I was the chosen instrument—­” Gisela walked rapidly over to the biplane.  A girl sat at the joy-stick looking as if carved out of wood.  There was no more expression on her face than if she were sitting in the gallery at a rather dull play.  Her lover and six brothers were dead in France.  She had watched her little brother and her old grandmother die of malnutrition.  Her sister was “officially pregnant” and under surveillance lest she kill herself.  No more perfect machine was at the disposal of Gisela Doering.  Whether Germany were delivered or razed to the earth was all one to her, but she was more than willing, as a Bavarian with a traditional hatred of Prussia, to play her part in the downfall of a race that presumed to call itself German.

2

Gisela stepped into the machine and it glided downward and skimmed lightly over the great length of the Maximilianstrasse.