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Updated: May 15, 2025
His is now an astral body, and through golden spaces of imagination his soul is winging her untrammelled flight. And there he really might remain for ever, but that his vagrom spirit is called back to earth by a gentle but resistless, very human summons, a gradual, consuming, Pantagruelian, god-like, thirst: a thirst to thank Heaven on.
McDunn's battery was not firing; the Zouaves lay dozing awake in the young clover, the Lancers, standing to horse, looked out across the world of trees and saw nothing stirring save a bird or two winging hastily northward. Berkley could distinguish a portion of the road that ran down to the burning bridge, where part of McDunn's battery was in position.
He did not need to look up at the white-shrouded figure winging slowly away into the night to know that their grim visitor had returned. The muscles of his arm, reacting to the sight and sound of the menacing form, carried his hand to the butt of his pistol; but after he had drawn the weapon, he immediately returned it to its holster with a shrug. "What for?" he muttered. "Can't waste ammunition."
Rip Van Winkle!" He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle!
"If it's the space plants they were after when they pulled that aerial hijack attempt, they could take them easily from these silt beds." Tom sobered. "You have a point there. I'd better have an audio screen set up around this whole area. That'll act as a burglar alarm and help discourage the fish, too." Twenty minutes later the boys were winging back to the mainland.
And, just as lightning might, it showed an instantaneous vision of a tired gray horse, foam-flecked and furiously ridden, pounding down the road head-on. The vision was blotted by the night again before any one could see who rode the horse, or what his weapons were if any or form a theory as to why he rode. But the winging bullet did what the sentry's voice had failed to do.
After him, fluttering irresolutely, flitted Parnassus Apollo, still winging its erratic way where God willed it a frail, dainty, translucent, wind-blown fleck of white above the gulf symbol, perhaps of the soul already soaring up out of the terrific deeps below.
The crows were winging their way to their nesting ground; the rabbits were seeking their burrows; the whole animal world was faring homeward. Some universal impulse seemed to be driving them along their predestined paths, as it drove the brooks and the clouds, and Pepeeta appeared, as much as they, to be borne onward by a power above herself.
Its booming echo across the plain and up against the naked, reddish-yellow hills, still further whipped the blood-frenzy of the mad mobs. Even the innumerable pigeons, "Allah's announcers," swirled in clouds from the arcades, mosques, and minarets surrounding the Haram, and from the Ka'aba itself, and began winging erratic courses all about the Forbidden City.
I knew not whether it was a presentiment of the misfortune which menaced us that had made me pass the preceding night in the most cruel inquietude. In my agitation, I sprang upon deck, and contemplated with horror the frigate winging its way upon the waters.
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