Pale, trembling with apprehension, his throat dry and husky, Don Hale could not keep his eyes away from the spectacle of that frightful fall. He stood as motionless as though fastened to the turf by means of invisible chains.
Nearer and nearer came the still-revolving plane. Now the machine was so clearly silhouetted against the sky that even the supports could be faintly distinguished.
Don had seen many a terrible sight during his stay in the war zone, but perhaps none had ever affected him so acutely as this. He could not help picturing in his mind the awful fate of poor Drugstore.
Not a voice—not an exclamation was heard. That most awesome silence which sometimes holds sway over spectators when they are witnesses to a catastrophe which they are powerless to avert had settled upon the crowd.
Faces were beginning to be turned aside, and though Don Hale felt an almost irresistible impulse to do the same, an impulse still stronger kept his wide, staring eyes fixed upon the airplane.
But a few moments more, and the tragedy would be over. His nerves were quivering violently. The strain of those few terrible seconds was almost too hard to bear.
And then, just as he was preparing to steel himself for the sound of a sickening crash—for the sight of a machine, smashed and battered to pieces, bursting into flames—a wild, half-stifled cry escaped his lips.
What was the reason?
Because of an almost unbelievable, impossible happening.
The airplane had suddenly stopped its whirling evolutions, and was soaring majestically through the air not a hundred feet above their heads. Its engine had started and was sending a deep droning hum through the air.