Its speed gradually slackened--and its occupants, Morgana, the Marchese Rivardi and their expert mechanic, Gaspard, gazed down on the unfolding panorama below them with close and eager interest.

There was nothing much to see.

Every sign of humanity seemed blotted out.

The red sky burning on the little stretch of sand was all.
"How small the world looks from the air!" said Morgana--"It's not worth half the fuss made about it! And yet--it's such a pretty little God's toy!" She smiled,--and in her smiling expressed a lovely sweetness.

Rivardi raised his eyes from his steering gear.
"You are not tired, Madama ?" he asked.
"Tired?
No, indeed! How can I be tired with so short a journey!" "Yet we have travelled a thousand miles since we left Sicily this morning"-- said Rivardi--"We have kept up the pace, have we not, Gaspard ?--or rather, the 'White Eagle' has proved its speed ?" Gaspard looked up from his place at the end of the ship.
"About two hundred and fifty to three hundred miles an hour,"-- he said--"One does not realise it in the movement." "But you realise that the flight is as safe as it is quick ?" said Morgana--"Do you not ?" "Madama, I confess my knowledge is outdistanced by yours,"-- replied Gaspard--"I am baffled by your secret--but I freely admit its power and success." "Good! Now let us dine!" said Morgana, opening a leather case such as is used for provisions in motoring, set plates, glasses, wine and food on the table--"A cold collation--but we'll have hot coffee to finish.
We could have dined in Cairo, but it would have been a bore! Marchese, we'll stop here, suspended in mid-air, and the stars shall be our festal lamps, vying with our own!" and she turned on a switch which illumined the whole interior of the air-ship with a soft bright radiance--"Whereabouts are we?
Still over the Libyan desert ?" Rivardi consulted the chart which was spread open in his steering-cabin.
"No--I think not.