“Where am I, now, I’d like to know?” he muttered.  “Not dead, anyhow—­not yet!”

A continuous roar of explosions shuddered the air, mingled with the booming of the mighty Falls.  Shouts and cheers and the rattle of machine-guns assailed his ear.  The glare of the search-lights, through the mist and steam, was darkened momentarily by thick, greasy coils of smoke, shot through by violent flashes of light as explosions took place.

Gabriel struggled to his feet, and peered about him,

“Still alive!” said he.  “And I must get back into the fight!  That’s all that matters, now—­the fight!”

He knew not, yet, where he was; but this mattered nothing.  His machine had, in fact, fallen near the river bank, in the eastern section of Prospect Park, beyond the Goat Island bridge—­this region of the Park having been left outside the fortifications, in the extension of the Air Trust plant.

The trees, here, had saved his life.  Had he smashed to earth a hundred yards further north, he would have been shattered against high walls and roofs.

Still giddy, but sensing no pain from his injured left arm, Gabriel made way toward the scene of conflict.  He knew nothing of how the tide of battle was going; nothing of his position; nothing as to what men he would first meet, his comrades or the enemy.

But for these considerations he had no thought.  His only idea, fixed and grim, was “The fight!” Dazed though he still was, he nerved himself for action.

And so, pressing onward through the livid glare, through the night shattered by stupendous detonations, he drew his revolver and broke into a run.

Strange evidences of the battle now became evident.  He saw an unexploded grenade lying beside a wounded man who grasped at him and moaned with pain.  Over a wrecked motor-car, greasy smoke was rising, as it burned.  Louder shouting drew him down a path to the left.  Masses of moving figures became dimly visible, through the mist.  And now, stabs of fire pierced the confusion and clamorous night.

Gabriel jerked up his revolver, as he ran, the terrible weapon shooting bullets charged with hydrocyanic-acid gas.

A man rose before him, shouting.

Gabriel levelled the weapon; but a glimpse of red ribbon in the other’s coat brought it down again.

“Comrade!” cried he.  “Where’s the attack?”

The other pointed.

“Gabriel!  Is that you?” he gasped, staring.

“Yes!  I fell—­machine smashed—­come on!”

“Hurt?”

“No!  Arm, maybe.  No matter!  God!  What’s this?”

Toward them a sudden swirl of men came sweeping, stumbling, shouting, in pandemonium.

“Our men!” cried Gabriel, starting forward again.  “We’re being driven!  Rally, here!  Rally!”

Beyond, a louder crackling sounded.  Here, there, men plunged down.  The retreat was becoming a rout!