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"By twilight."
"Great God! In only a few hours. What news of
the flying stages?" he asked.
"The people of the south-west wards are ready."
"Ready! "
He turned impatiently to the blank circles of the
lenses again.
"I suppose it must be a sort of speech. Would to
God I knew certainly the thing that should be said!
Aeroplanes at Arawan! They must have started
before the main fleet. And the people only ready!
Surely . . ."
"Oh! what does it matter whether I speak well or
ill?" he said, and felt the light grow brighter.
He had framed some vague sentence of democratic
sentiment when suddenly doubts overwhelmed him.
His belief in his heroic quality and calling he found had
altogether lost its assured conviction. The picture of
a little strutting futility in a windy waste of
incomprehensible destinies replaced it. Abruptly it was
perfectly clear to him that this revolt against Ostrog was
premature, foredoomed to failure, the impulse of
passionate inadequacy against inevitable things. He
thought of that swift flight of aeroplanes like the swoop
of Fate towards him. He was astonished that he could
have seen things in any other light. In that final
emergency he debated, thrust debate resolutely aside,
determined at all costs to go through with the thing
he had undertaken. And he could find no word to
begin. Even as he stood, awkward, hesitating, with
an indiscrete apology for his inability trembling on his
lips, came the noise of many people crying out, the
running to and fro of feet. "Wait," cried someone,
and a door opened. "She is coming," said the voices.
Graham turned, and the watching lights waned.
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