Northwards, the pall of
London darkened the horizon. An untidy medley of houses and factories
stretched almost to the gates of the vast air terminus. Listening
intently, one could catch the faint roar of the city's awakening
traffic, punctuated here and there by the shrill whistling of tugs in
the river, hidden from sight by a shroud of ghostly mist. The dock on
which Prince Shan stood was one apportioned to foreign royalty and
visitors of note. A hundred yards away, the Madrid boat was on the point
of starting, her whistles already blowing, and her engines commencing to
beat. Presently the great machinery which assisted her flight from the
ground commenced its sullen roar. There was a chorus of farewell shouts
and she glided up into the air, a long row of people waving farewells
from the windows. Prince Shan glanced at his watch,--twenty minutes to
six. He paced the wooden boards and looked again,--ten minutes to six.
Then he stopped suddenly. Along that gleaming stretch of private road
came a car, driven at a rapid pace. Prince Shan stood and watched it,
and as he watched, it seemed almost as though the hidden sun had caught
his face and transfigured it. He stood as might stand a man who feels
his feet upon the clouds. His lips trembled. There was no one there to
see--his attendants stood respectfully in the background--but in his
eyes was a rare moisture, and for a single moment a little choking at
his throat. The car turned in under the arched roof.
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