over her, smothering her, and a super-pain in her shoulder. After a
second or two as long as death, she realised dimly that she was all
tensely strung to an attitude, like a marionette. Her hands were up
trying to shield her head, her chin was pressed down to her drawn-up
knees. Her blue serge shoulder was extraordinarily wet and immovable.
She looked along the cloud. Her enemy was not there. There was a round
hole in the cloud, and as she leaned painfully towards it, she could see
a few of the lights of London, and something falling spasmodically
towards them.

The cloud had been shaken to its foundations by the two explosions, and
the German witch, who had been seated perhaps on a seam in the material,
or at any rate on one of the less stable parts of the fabric, had fallen
through. Her parachute cloak, in passing through the hole in the cloud,
had been turned inside out above her head, and rendered useless. Over
and about her falling figure her broomstick darted helplessly, uttering
curious sad cries, like a seagull's.

Even as the English witch watched her enemy's disaster, the larger part
of the cloud, weakened by all the shock and movement, broke away with a
hissing sound. The witch's feet hung now over space, she dared not move;
she had difficulty in steadying herself with her unwounded arm, for her
hand could find only a quicksand of dissolving cloud to lean on. She had
no thoughts left but thoughts of danger and of pain.

But Harold the Broomstick came back. The witch heard a rustling sound
close to her, and it startled her more than all the noise of the guns,
which had come, as it seemed, from the forgotten other side of eternity.
The rough head of Harold appeared over the cloud's edge, and insinuated
itself pathetically under her arm. Very carefully and very painfully the