"High in the air over Mount Terrible." A deep and significant silence fell over the little company. If Count von Dresslin had seen such an eagle over the Swiss peak called Mount Terrible, and had been near enough to notice the bird's colour, every man there knew what had been the occasion.
For only once had that particular region of Switzerland been violated by their aircraft during the war. It had happened a year ago when Von Dresslin, patrolling the north Swiss border, had discovered a British flyer planing low over Swiss territory in the air-region between Mount Terrible and the forest of Les Errues.
Instantly the Hun, too, crossed the line: and the air-battle was joined above the forest.
Higher, higher, ever higher mounted the two fighting planes until the earth had fallen away two miles below them.
Then, out of the icy void of the upper air-space, now roaring with their engines' clamour, the British plane shot earthward, down, down, rushing to destruction like a shooting-star, and crashed in the forest of Les Errues.
And where it had been, there in mid-air, hung an eagle with a crest as white as the snow on the shining peaks below.
"He seemed suddenly to be there instead of the British plane," said Von Dresslin. "I saw him distinctly—might have shot him with my pistol as he sheered by me, his yellow eyes aflame, balanced on broad wings. So near he swept that his bright fierce eyes flashed level with mine, and for an instant I thought he meant to attack me.
"But he swept past in a single magnificent curve, screaming, then banked swiftly and plunged straight downward in the very path of the British plane."
Nobody spoke. Von Dresslin twirled his flower and looked at it in an absent-minded way.
"From that glimpse, a year ago, I believe I had seen a species of eagle the proper habitat of which is North America," he said.