The German airman pointed his craft once, and then again, to bring his fixed machine-gun to bear upon the French aeroplane; but either the latter managed better and escaped, or the German's gun was clogged. At least the latter did not bring his antagonist down at once.
Suddenly the watchers gasped in unison—a smothered cry of horror. The swiftly darting aeroplanes, half circling each other, seemed drawn together by the suction of their propellers. They entangled, pitched downward, and plunged through the broken treetops, out of sight.
"Oh! The poor things! The poor things!" groaned Belinda, covering her eyes.
Carl removed his cap. "A hero—that," he said. "Ach, he did not fail!"
The horrified girl could appreciate little of the heroism of either aviator. The awful incident depressed her anew. She could not sleep for hours that night for thought of it.
Suppose one of the aviators was Frank Sanderson? He must be daily suffering just such deadly peril in the air. Her heart ached and she rose to another day's work in the hospital, heavy-eyed and despairing.
By order of the visiting doctor several semi-convalescents were removed from her ward that morning. They all seemed grieved to part with her—these men whom she had so shrunk from nursing in the first place. It touched the girl.
Other wounded were being brought into the station all the time and the other wards were filling up. Soon the stretcher-bearers were directed to her ward with an unconscious burden.
"Badly bruised, but otherwise only a broken shoulder, Nurse," one informed Belinda. "They put him under ether to set the bone. A brave fellow, this. They found him in the wood yonder—the hero of that air fight last night."
"Impossible!" gasped the nurse. "They must have both been killed. I saw them fall. Are you sure?"