Jimbo came sliding
down a pole of gleaming ebony. In a hammock of beams and rafters,
swinging like a network of trapezes, Monkey swooped down after him,
head first as usual. For the moon that moment passed behind a cloud,
and the silver rivets started from their shadowy sockets. Clusters of
star nails followed suit. The palace bent and tottered like a falling
wave. Its pillars turned into trunks of pine trees; its corridors were
spaces through the clouds; its chambers were great dips between the
mountain summits.
'It's going too fast for sight,' thought Rogers; 'I can't keep up with
it. Even the children have toppled off.' But he still heard Daddy's
laughter echoing down the lanes of darkness as he chased his pattern
with yearning and enthusiasm.
The huge structure with its towers and walls and platforms slid softly
out of sight. The moonlight sponged its outlines from the sky. The
scaffolding melted into darkness, moving further westwards as night
advanced. Already it was over France and Italy, sweeping grandly
across the sea, bewildering the vessels in its net of glamour, and
filling with wonder the eyes of the look-out men at the mast heads.
'The fire's going out,' a voice was saying. Rogers heard it through a
moment's wild confusion as he fell swiftly among a forest of rafters,
beams, and shifting uprights.
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