"There," he said, and his big gloved finger pointed, a black misshapen thing before Redwood's eyes.
Far away as it seemed, the great embankment, crested by the blaze from which the searchlights sprang, rose up against the sky.

Those beams went and came among the clouds and the hilly land about them as if they traced mysterious incantations.
"I don't know," said the driver at last, and it was clear he was afraid to go on.
Presently a searchlight swept down the sky to them, stopped as it were with a start, scrutinised them, a blinding stare confused rather than mitigated by an intervening monstrous weed stem or so.

They sat with their gloves held over their eyes, trying to look under them and meet that light.
"Go on," said Redwood after a while.
The driver still had his doubts; he tried to express them, and died down to "I don't know" again.
At last he ventured on.

"Here goes," he said, and roused his machinery to motion again, followed intently by that great white eye.
To Redwood it seemed for a long time they were no longer on earth, but in a state of palpitating hurry through a luminous cloud.

Teuf, teuf, teuf, teuf, went the machine, and ever and again--obeying I know not what nervous impulse--the driver sounded his horn.
They passed into the welcome darkness of a high-fenced lane, and down into a hollow and past some houses into that blinding stare again.