The witch's feet hung now over space, she dared not move; she had difficulty in steadying herself with her unwounded arm, for her hand could find only a quicksand of dissolving cloud to lean on.

She had no thoughts left but thoughts of danger and of pain.
But Harold the Broomstick came back.

The witch heard a rustling sound close to her, and it startled her more than all the noise of the guns, which had come, as it seemed, from the forgotten other side of eternity.
The rough head of Harold appeared over the cloud's edge, and insinuated itself pathetically under her arm.

Very carefully and very painfully the witch reached a kneeling position, damaging her refuge with every movement in spite of her care.

She gasped with pain, and Harold tried to look very strong and hopeful to comfort her.