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The Flying Legion by George Allan England
page 154 of 477 (32%)


CHAPTER XVII


MIRACLES, SCOURGE OF FLAME

His form, sitting there at the desk--his face wearing an odd
smile--had already begun to grow less distinct. It seemed as if the
light surrounding him had faded, though everywhere else in the cabin
it still gleamed with its accustomed brilliance. And as this light
around him began to blur into a russet dimness, forming a sort of
screen between him and visibility, the definition of his outlines
began to melt away.

The Master still remained visible, as a whole; but the details of him
were surely vanishing. And as they vanished, faintly a high-light, a
shadow, a bit of metal-work showed through the space where he sat.
He seemed a kind of dissolving cloud, through which now more and more
clearly objects beyond him could be distinguished. Impossible though
this seemed, it was indubitably true.

As he disappeared, he kept speaking. The effect of that undiminished
voice, calm, slow, resonant, issuing from that disintegrating vapor,
stirred the hair on the captive Frenchman's neck and scalp.

"Vibration, _mon cher monsieur_," said he, "is everything. According
to the researches of the Ecole Polytechnique, in Paris--no doubt you,
yourself, have studied there, _n'est-ce pas?_--vibration of the first
octave from 2 to 8 per second, give us no sense-impression. From the
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