It did not last long. The man who was alone was attacking boldly. Time after time his machine-gun flashed forth flames. Then, to avoid the enemy's bullets, he looped the loop twice, each time throwing his aeroplane in such a position that I was able to distinguish on the canvas the three concentric circles that denote the Allied machines. Then, coming nearer and attacking his adversaries from behind, he returned to his gun.
The Hun biplane—I observed the iron cross—dived straight for the ground and recovered itself. The two men seemed to be sitting tight under their furs and masks. There was a third machine-gun attack. The pilot threw up his hands. The biplane capsized and fell.
I saw this fall in the most inexplicable fashion. At first, of course, it seemed swift as lightning. And then it became infinitely slow and even ceased, with the machine overturned and the two bodies motionless, head downwards and arms outstretched.
Then the ground shot up with a dizzy speed, devastated, shell-holed fields, swarming with thousands of French poilus.
The biplane came down beside a river. From the shapeless fuselage and the shattered wings two legs appeared.
And the French plane landed almost immediately, a short way off. The victor stepped out, pushed back the soldiers who had run up from every side and, moving a few yards towards his motionless prey, took off his mask and made the sign of the cross.
"Oh," I whispered, "this is dreadful! And how mysterious! . . ."
Then I saw that Noël Dorgeroux was on his knees, his face distorted with emotion:
"What is it, uncle?" I asked.
Stretching towards the wall his trembling hands, which were clasped together, he stammered: