seconds of this was worth five thousand years of any other
form of life.

The summits of the range shot under him, unfolding a variegated rug of
landscape. He dipped the planes slightly, intending to follow the
range's descent and again they answered to his desire. He saw himself
the eyes of an army, the scout of the empyrean. If a body of troops were
to march along the pass road they would be as visible as a cloud in the
sky. Yes, here was revolution in detecting the enemy's plans! He had
become momentarily unconscious of the swiftness of his progress, thanks
to its hypnotic facility. He was in the danger which too active a brain
may bring to a critical and delicate mechanical task. The tower loomed
before him as suddenly as if it had been shot up out of the earth. He
must turn, and quickly, to avoid disaster; he must turn, or he would be
across the white posts in the enemy's country.

"Oh, glorious magic!" cried Marta.

"A dozen good shots could readily bring it down," remarked Westerling
critically. "It makes a steady target at that angle of approach. He's
going to turn--but take care, there!"

"Oh!" groaned Marta and Mrs. Galland together.

In an agony of suspense they saw the fragile creation of cloth and
bamboo and metal, which had seemed as secure as an albatross riding on
the lap of a steady wind, dip far over, careen back in the other
direction, and then the whirring noise that had grown with its flight
ceased. It was no longer a thing of winged life, defying the law of
gravity, but a thing dead, falling under the burden of a living weight.

"The engine has stopped!" exclaimed Westerling, any trace of emotion in
his observant imperturbability that of satisfaction that the machine was
the enemy's. He was thinking of the exhibition, not of the man in the
machine.

Marta was thinking of the man who was about to die, a silhouette against
the soft blue holding its own balance resolutely in the face of peril.
She could not watch any longer; she could not wait on the catastrophe.
She was living the part of the aviator more vividly than he, with his
hand and mind occupied. She rushed down the terrace steps wildly, as if
her going and her agonized prayer could avert the inevitable. The plane,
descending, skimmed the garden wall and passed out of sight. She heard a
thud, a crackling of braces, a ripping of cloth, but no cry.

Westerling had started after her, exclaiming, "This is a case for first
aid!" while Mr