The cloud, like a sheep suffering from the lack of other sheep to follow, had not yet quitted the scene.

The witches' battle had tended upward, and it had ended several hundred feet above the level of the cloud, which was apparently sinking.

The downward course of the combatants' fall was therefore arrested, and they found themselves still interlocked, prostrate and embedded, with their eyes and mouths full of woolly wisps of cloud.
Our witch was the first to recover herself.

She stood up and brushed herself, remarking: "By jove, that parachute cloak of yours is a great dodge.

I wish I'd thought of it.