"You will soon," said the other, and abruptly bent downward one
iron handle of his huge machine. The engine stopped, stooped, and
dived almost as deliberately as a man bathing; in their downward
rush they swept within fifty yards of a big bulk of stone that
Turnbull knew only too well. The last red anger of the sunset was
ended; the dome of heaven was dark; the lanes of flaring light in
the streets below hardly lit up the base of the building. But he
saw that it was St. Paul's Cathedral, and he saw that on the top
of it the ball was still standing erect, but the cross was
stricken and had fallen sideways. Then only he cared to look down
into the streets, and saw that they were inflamed with uproar and
tossing passions.

"We arrive at a happy moment," said the man steering the ship.
"The insurgents are bombarding the city, and a cannon-ball has
just hit the cross. Many of the insurgents are simple people, and
they naturally regard it as a happy omen."

"Quite so," said Turnbull, in a rather colourless voice.

"Yes," replied the other. "I thought you would be glad to see
your prayer answered. Of course I apologize for the word prayer."

"Don't mention it," said Turnbull.

The flying ship had come down upon a sort of curve, and was now
rising again. The higher and higher it rose the broader and
broader became the scenes of flame and desolation underneath.

Ludgate Hill indeed had been an uncaptured and comparatively