a greater chorus of aeroplanes below her now; the whole sky
was ringing with it. The witch could hear a deep bass-voiced machine, a
baritone, a quavering tenor, and--thin and sharp as a pin--a little
treble sound that made Harold rear and struggle to be free.

"Another witch," said the witch. "I was wondering why the Huns hadn't
got their magic organised by now." She mounted her Harold and slipped
off the cloud.

The guns were shouting now, and the shells wailed and burst not so very
far below them, but Harold trembled no longer. More quickly than a
falling star he swooped, and in a second the alien witch was in sight,
an unwieldy figure whose broomstick sounded rather broken-winded,
probably owing to the long-distance flight and to the fourteen stone of
Teutonic magic on its back. There was a wicked-looking apparatus
attached to the collar of the German broomstick, obviously designed to
squirt unpleasant enchantments downward. This contrivance was apparently
giving some trouble, for the German was so busy attending to it that at
first she did not see or hear the approach of Harold and his rider. She
was aroused to her danger by a heavy chunk of magic which struck and
nearly unseated her. In a second, however, she was ready with a parrying
enchantment, and the fight began. The two broomsticks reared and circled
round each other, and over and under each other. From their riders'
finger-tips magic of the most explosive kind crackled, and incantations
of such potency were exchanged that, I am told, the tiles and
chimney-pots of the streets below suffered a good deal. Round and round
and over and under whirled the broomsticks, till the very spaces went
mad, and London seemed to rush down nightmare slopes into a stormy sky,
while its lights swung from pole to pole and were entangled with the
stars.

Both broomsticks were by now so uproariously excited that neither witch
was able to aim her magic missiles very carefully, and indeed it was not
long before Harold passed entirely beyond control. After bucking
violently once or twice, he gave a wild high cry that was like the wind
howling through the fierce forest past of his race, and fell upon the
other broomstick, fixing his bristles into its throat. The shock of the
collision was too much for both witches. Our witch--if I may call her
so--was shot over Harold's head, and landed on the ample breast of her
adversary, who, in consequence, lost her balance. They fell together