Billy and Henri removed their caps in reverence to valor and to honor the memory of a gallant comrade who had been game to the last.
Releasing the dead aviator from his death grip on the controllers, the boys tenderly lifted the corpse from the driver’s seat in the machine and covered the upturned face and glazed eyes with the muffler the airman had worn about his neck. The body was that of a youth of slight build, but well muscled. In the pockets of his blouse the boys found a pencil, a memorandum book and a photograph, reduced to small size by cutting round the face—a motherly type, dear to all hearts.
The usual mark of identity of soldiers in the field was missing, but on the third finger of the left hand was a magnificent seal ring, on which was engraved an eagle holding a scroll in its beak and clutching a sheaf of arrows in its talons.
Billy took possession of these effects with silent determination to some day deliver them to the pictured mother, if she could be found.
“The ring shows that he came of a noble house,” said Henri, who had some knowledge of heraldry.
“He was a brave lad, for all that, and noble in himself,” remarked Billy, who had the American idea that every man is measured by his own pattern.
So they gave the dead youth the best burial they could, at the foot of one of the giant trees, and sadly turned away to inspect the aëroplane that had been so strangely guided.
It was a beautiful machine, all the fine points visible to their practiced eyes—a full-rigged military biplane, armor plates and all. The tanks of extra capacity were nearly full of petrol.
“It must have been a short journey, as well as a fatal one,” said Billy. “Very likely the launching was from a British ship, not far out at sea, and the purpose was to make a lookover of the German land forces around here.”
“I’d like to take a little jaunt in that machine,” sighed Henri, who could not tear himself away from the superb flyer.