ceeded. He seemed
invulnerable. But later, much later, while he was fighting on the Aisne
in May, 1917, Dorme, who had penetrated far within the enemy's lines,
never came back.

[Illustration: IN THE AIR]

Was Heurtaux the greatest, whose method was as delicate as himself--a
virtuoso of the air, clever, supple and quickwitted, whose hand and eye
equaled his thought in rapidity? Was it Deullin, skilled in approach,
and prompt as the tempest? Or the long-enduring, robust, admirable
_sous-lieutenant_ Nungessor, or Sergeant Sauvage, or Adjutant Tarascon?
Was it Captain Menard, or Sangloer, or de la Tour? But the reader knows
very well that it was Guynemer. Why was it Guynemer, according to the
testimony of all his rivals? History and the epic have coupled many
names of friends, like Achilles and Patroclus, Orestes and Pylades,
Nisus and Euryalus, Roland and Oliver. In these friendships, one is
always surpassed by the other, but not in intelligence, nor courage nor
nobility of character. For generosity, or wisdom of council, one might
even prefer a Patroclus to an Achilles, an Oliver to a Roland. In what,
then, lies the superiority? That is the secret of temperament, the
secret of genius, the interior flame which burns the brightest, and
whose appearances cause astonishment and almost terror, as if some
mystery were divulged.

It is certain that Georges Guynemer was a mechanician and a gunsmith. He
knew his machine and his machine-gun, and how to make them do their
utmost. But there were others who knew the same. Dorme and Heurtaux were
perhaps more skillful in maneuvering than he. (It was interesting to
watch Guynemer when he was preparing to mount his Nieuport. First the
bird was brought out of the shed; then he minutely examined and fingered
it. This tall thin young man, with his amber-colored skin, his long oval
face and thin nose, his mouth with its corners falling slightly, a very
slight moustache, and crow-black hair tossed backward, would have
resembled a Moorish chief had he been more impassive. But his features
constantly showed his changing thoughts, and this play of expression
gave grace and freshness to his face. Sometimes it seemed strained and
hardened, and a vertical wrinkle appeared on his forehead above the
nose. His eyes--the unforgettable eyes of Guynemer--round like agates,
black and burning with a brilliance impossible to endure, for which
there is only one expression sufficiently strong, that of Sai