“They must have dropped into the sea!” gasped the girl, awe-stricken.
Next second, however, the other machine loomed up to exact vengeance. Beryl had swiftly replenished the gun with ammunition, and was again in readiness for the word from her lover to fire.
Ronnie, fully alive to the fact that he was being pressed by the second machine, dived and banked, then climbed as rapidly as he could, yet, alas! he could not shake off his pursuer.
In silence, with the wind whistling through the struts and the piece of torn fabric flapping, he pressed on, striving to escape from his relentless pursuer, who, no doubt, intended to shoot him down as reprisal for the destruction of his Hun comrade.
Again the enemy machine opened out his searchlight, and, holding him as a mark, fired rapidly. For a moment Ronnie did not reply. All his nerve was concentrated upon obtaining the advantage a second time.
Up and down, to and fro, the two machines banked, rose and fell, but Ronald Pryor could handle his machine as though it were part of himself. At last he drew up, and, setting his teeth as he pointed “The Hornet’s” nose direct at his adversary, he blurted out:
“Fire!”
Beryl laid the gun straight at the aeroplane, touched it, and again death rained forth.
Yet almost at that very same moment the Hun also opened fire. The spluttering was deafening for a few seconds, when, to the girl’s alarm, she suddenly saw her lover fall helpless and inert over his instruments.
“Gad, Beryl,” he managed to gasp, “they’ve got me—the brutes! Phew, how it burns!”