_Nissr_ was motionless, save for the pitch and swing of the surf that tossed her; but forward she could no longer go.
As the men came up to the top gallery, the hands of the setting sun reached out and seized them with red ardor.

The radiance was half blinding, from that sun and from light reflected by the heavily running waves, all white-caps to shore.

On both aileron-tips, the machine-guns were spitting intermittently, worked by crews under the major and Ferrara, the Italian ace.
"Cease firing!" ordered the Master.

"Simonds, you and Prisrend deal out the lethal guns.

Look alive, now!" Sheltering themselves from the patter of slugs behind stanchions and bulwarks, the Legionaries waited.