Elène came into harbour soon afterwards, a French sailor being put aboard to navigate the crippled fishing-boat to safety. For days after her arrival in Brest there were stories about as to an enemy submarine having been sunk by a French torpedo craft, but nothing definite is known.
As to the fate of Manech, nothing whatever has been heard. But every day Elène is out early upon the highest cliff, peering through the sea mist across Brest Roads. Her companions are lonely women whose husbands and lovers have been swallowed up by the sea. They strain their eyes over the waters, hoping against hope, but their search is always in vain.
XI—TALE OF THE RESCUE FROM THE AIR
For the dashing exploit next described, Lieutenant Pétri, of the French Aerial Service, received the Military Cross. It was during the tragic period when the British Naval Division had evacuated Antwerp. Somewhere near Bruges a large party of cavalry, which included the Royal Horse Guards, met the fugitives. Above them a French biplane hovered. A splinter of shell had killed the observer. Lieutenant Pétri piloted the machine. Hard by the town of Eecloo he perceived a score of tiny ant-men fleeing along the road towards Waerschoot. These would have attracted Pétri's attention before had not his engine commenced miss-firing. For a time it seemed on the point of refusing action altogether, but at last he got it going again.
It was then, when the biplane had come quite close to the earth, that he became aware of an exciting chase beneath. The cape of a woman first caught his eye. She was mounted on a horse, and was galloping away at breakneck speed from half-a-dozen Uhlans, who, with lances poised, were pursuing her. In a flash Pétri had manœuvred his machine over the horsemen. A lever was pulled, and the roar of an explosion right among the Uhlans told of the success of his aim. As he descended Pétri observed that one of the soldiers had managed to make good his escape. In all probability he had gone for reinforcements. There was no time to lose. The machine came to earth near the woman, who had dismounted.
"You have come to make me a prisoner?" she cried, in French. She was very beautiful, with dark curls of chestnut hair floating in the wind.
"I have come to take you," answered Pétri, touching his cap, "but not as a prisoner—as a passenger, if mam'selle will permit."
In horror she pointed to the observer, whose head hung loosely on his breast.
"Poor Fanchon has been shot," answered the lieutenant. Tearing away the straps that held the poor fellow securely in his seat, Pétri laid him reverently on a mound of grass by the roadside.