in and began to
circle round and round, expecting his comrade. Guynemer was coming back,
could not but come back, and the cause of his delay was probably the
excitement of the chase. He was so reckless! Like Dorme--who one fine
morning in May, on the Aisne, went out and was never heard of
afterwards--he was not afraid of traveling long distances over enemy
country. He must come back. It is impossible he should not come back;
he was beyond the reach of common accidents, invincible, immortal! This
was a certitude, the very faith of the Storks, a tenet which never was
questioned. The notion of Guynemer falling to a German seemed hardly
short of sacrilege.

So Bozon-Verduraz waited on, making up his mind to wait as long as
necessary. But an hour passed, and nobody appeared. Then the airman
broadened his circles and searched farther out, without, however,
swerving from the rallying-point. He searched the air like Nisus the
forest in his quest of Euryalus, and his mind began to misgive him.

After two hours he was still waiting, alone, noticing with dismay that
his oil was running low. One more circle! How slack the engine sounded
to him! One more circle! Now it was impossible to wait any more: he must
go back alone.

On landing, his first word was to ask about Guynemer.

"Not back yet!"

Bozon-Verduraz knew it. He knew that Guynemer had been taken away from
him.

The telephone and the wireless sent their appeals around, airplanes
started on anxious cruises. Hour followed hour, and evening came, one of
those late summer evenings during which the horizon wears the tints of
flowers; the shadows deepened, and no news came of Guynemer. From
neighboring camps French, British, or Belgian comrades arrived, anxious
for news. Everywhere the latest birds had come home, and one hardly
dared ask the airmen any question.

But the daily routine had to be dispatched, as if there were no mourning
in the camp. All the young men there were used to death, and to sporting
with it; they did not like to show their sorrow; but it was deep in
them, sullen and fierce.

At dinner a heavy melancholy weighed upon them. Guynemer's seat was
empty, and no one dreamed of taking it. One officer tried to dispel the
cloud by suggesting hypotheses. Guynemer was lucky, had always been;
probably he was alive, a prisoner.

Guynemer a prisoner!... He had said one day with a laugh, "The Boches
will never get me alive," but his laugh was terrible. No, Guy