The pilots had made up their minds to keep up a high rate of speed, and take the chances of running into or near a populous city, where by some hook or crook the waning supply of petrol could be replenished.
Over 200 miles had been covered that day before any of the four in the war-planes raised a cry of “found,” and it was Canby who had the honor of making the loud announcement:
“Look, sports; look away to the right!”
The vision to which the soldier called attention were towering domes glittering with the crescent, rising out of a sea of foliage; white buildings shining with ivory softness through bordering clumps of dark verdure, and flat roofs resembling miniature lakes in the distance.
As the war-planes swung around and were sent, nose on, straight at this point of lovely vista, the aviators faced breezes laden with the odors of roses and jasmine.
This wilderness of gardens and scented thickets was encircled by bare mountain walls, piercing the azure sky above.
The war-planes settled in a clearing between two orchards, and near a bubbling spring, shaded by olive trees and vines.
“Let the petrol question go on the table for an hour or two, anyway,” pleaded Henri, entranced by the appeal of this earthly paradise.
“So be it,” agreed Macauley, “and while we are resting I mean to commune with nature, including the fruit that yonder tempts me.”
“I’m with you,” cried Canby, rising from a kneeling position at the spring, in which he had buried his face from chin to eyebrow.