It seemed an interminable time before an acceleration of the motors announced that Blake had disconnected the wing mechanism and had locked the wings for a spiral volplane.
Dick promptly throttled down, and stood ready at the first sign to open the motors all out. As he did so he became aware of a peculiar smell. It was something like but not the same as that of burning oil. Then with disconcerting suddenness the motors ceased firing.
"Engine failure," reported the lad.
"Hang it all!" ejaculated Blake. "Couldn't have occurred at a worse time."
The Belgian started and whipped out a revolver.
"For me there is no surrender," he exclaimed dramatically. "I shoot myself rather than be a prisoner of war to the Bosches."
"Stop it!" exclaimed Blake, releasing his hold of the controls and gripping the Belgian's arm. "We are not done in yet. Far from it. Put that thing away and be reasonable. Look out and see if you recognise a good landing-place."
Fauvart, rallied by Blake's manner, did as he was told. By this time the battleplane was less than two thousand feet up. Somewhat to the airmen's surprise no shells came from the invisible anti-aircraft guns known to be somewhere in the vicinity.
"There!" exclaimed the Belgian, indicating a clearing in the woods, where even in the twilight the grass showed distinctly against the darker green of the treetops. "It may be safe to land there. If the Bosches have not already seen us we may escape detection."
"Any luck yet, Dick?" called out the pilot anxiously.