There it was--a line
of little dots in the sky--and then more, dotting the south-eastern
horizon, and then still more, until all that quarter of the sky was
stippled with blue specks. Now they were all thin little strokes
of blue, and now one and now a multitude would heel and catch the
sun and become short flashes of light. They came, rising and
falling and growing larger, like some huge flight of gulls or rooks
or such-like birds, moving with a marvellous uniformity, and ever
as they drew nearer they spread over a greater width of sky. The
southward wind flung itself in an arrow-headed cloud athwart the
sun. And then suddenly they swept round to the eastward and
streamed eastward, growing smaller and smaller and clearer and
clearer again until they vanished from the sky. And after that we
noted to the northward and very high Evesham's fighting machines
hanging high over Naples like an evening swarm of gnats.
"It seemed to have no more to do with us than a flight of
birds.
"Even the mutter of guns far away in the south-east seemed to
us to signify nothing . . .
"Each day, each dream after that, we were still exalted, still
seeking that refuge where we might live and love. Fatigue had come
upon us, pain and many distresses. For though we were dusty and
stained by our toilsome tramping, and half starved and with the
horror of the dead men we had seen and the flight of the
peasants--for very soon a gust of fighting swept up the
peninsula--with these things haunting our minds it still resulted
only in a deepening resolution to escape.
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