the lap of a steady wind, dip far over, careen back in the other
direction, and then the whirring noise that had grown with its flight
ceased. It was no longer a thing of winged life, defying the law of
gravity, but a thing dead, falling under the burden of a living weight.

"The engine has stopped!" exclaimed Westerling, any trace of emotion in
his observant imperturbability that of satisfaction that the machine was
the enemy's. He was thinking of the exhibition, not of the man in the
machine.

Marta was thinking of the man who was about to die, a silhouette against
the soft blue holding its own balance resolutely in the face of peril.
She could not watch any longer; she could not wait on the catastrophe.
She was living the part of the aviator more vividly than he, with his
hand and mind occupied. She rushed down the terrace steps wildly, as if
her going and her agonized prayer could avert the inevitable. The plane,
descending, skimmed the garden wall and passed out of sight. She heard a
thud, a crackling of braces, a ripping of cloth, but no cry.

Westerling had started after her, exclaiming, "This is a case for first
aid!" while Mrs. Galland, taking the steps as fast as she could, brought
up the rear. Through the gateway in the garden wall could be seen the
shoulders of a young officer, a streak of red coursing down his cheek,
rising from the wreck. An inarticulate sob of relief broke from Marta's
throat, followed by quick gasps of breath. Captain Arthur Lanstron was
looking into the startled eyes of a young girl that seemed to reflect
his own emotions of the moment after having shared those he had in the
air.

"I flew! I flew clear over the range, at any rate!" he said. "And I'm