Despite the danger of delay Yvette insisted on binding up Dick’s shoulder. Luckily no bone had been touched, but he had lost a lot of blood. By a tremendous effort of will he managed to help Yvette until the aeroplane was ready, and then climbing into his seat collapsed in a dead faint.
When he came to his senses again it was daylight and the Mohawk was flying steadily high above a carpet of white mist which hid the ground. Yvette, crouched over the duplicate control lever, nodded and smiled.
“Better now?” she called.
“A bit rocky,” laughed Dick. “Where are we?”
“We ought to be about over Scutari according to speed and compass bearings,” was Yvette’s reply, “but the mist has been baffling me. Still, I don’t think we are far out.”
“How long have we been flying?” asked Dick.
“About two hours,” Yvette responded, “and we have been doing about seventy. That should bring us very near the coast.”
After a stiff dose of brandy and a mouthful of food Dick felt better. A few moments later he pointed downwards.
“Lake Scutari!” he remarked, as he recognised the long narrow sheet of water at the head of which the ramshackle half-Turkish town stands.
The mist was already breaking as, at ten thousand feet elevation, they swept out over the Adriatic and headed for the Italian coast. Then Yvette began a rapid call on the wireless set with which the Mohawk was fitted and placed the head-telephones over her ears.