The upper galleries grew vocal with execrations.
Not one was of fear; all voiced disappointment, the passion of baffled fury.

Angrily a boiler-shop clatter of machine-guns vomited useless frenzy.
Wearily, like a stricken bird that has been forced too long to wing its broken way, the Eagle of the Sky--still two hundred yards from shore--lagged down into the high-running surf.

Down, in a murderous hail of fire she sank, into the waves that beat on the stark, sun-baked Sahara shore.
And from hundreds of barbarous throats arose the killing-cry to Allah--the battle-cry of Beni Harb, the murder-lusting Sons of War..