“Then I know you.  You are his friend John Scott, the American.  I thought at first that you had the accent of North America.  Oh, I know of you!  We flying men are a close group, and what happens to one of us is not hidden long from the others.  Your password is sufficient.”

“You know then that Lannes is in a hospital with a bullet wound in his shoulder?”

“I heard it two days ago.  A pity!  A great pity!  He’ll be as well as ever in a month, but France needs her king of the air every day.  My own name is Delaunois, and I’ll put you down in those hills at whatever point you wish, Monsieur Jean Castel of America.”

John smiled.  Delaunois was a fine fellow after all.

“I can’t give you an extra suit for flying,” said Delaunois, “but your two blankets ought to protect you in the icy air.  I’ll not go very high, and an hour or a little more should put us in the heart of the hills.”

“Good enough, and many thanks to you,” said John.

They gave the machine the requisite push, sprang in and rose slowly above the snowy waste.  It was a good aeroplane, and Delaunois was a good aviator, but John missed the Arrow and Philip.  He knew that the heavens nowhere held such another pair.  Alas! that Lannes should be laid up at such a time with a wound!

But he quickly called himself ungrateful.  Delaunois had come at a most timely moment, and he was doing him a great service.  It was very cold above the earth, as Delaunois had predicted, and he wrapped the blankets closely about himself, drawing one over his head and face, until he was completely covered except the eyes.

To the westward several other planes were hovering and to the eastward was another group which John knew to be German.  But the flying machines did not seem disposed to enter into hostilities that morning, although John saw the double line of trenches blazing now and then with fire, and, at intervals, the heavy batteries on either side sent a stated number of shells at the enemy.

Seen from a height the opposing trenches appeared to be almost together, and the fire of the hostile marksmen blended into the same line of light.  But John did not look at them long.  He had seen so much of foul trenches for weary months that it was a pleasure to let the eye fill with something else.

He looked instead at the high hills which were fast coming near, and although covered with snow, with trees bare of leaves, they were a glorious sight, an intense relief to him after all that monotony of narrow mud walls.  He knew that trenches or other earthworks ran among the hills also, but the nature of the ground compelled breaks, and it would be easier anyhow to pass through a forest or a ravine.

“Where do you wish me to put you down?” asked Delaunois.

“At some place in those low mountains there, where the German lines are furthest from ours.”

“I think I know such a point.  You won’t mind my speaking of you as a spy, Mr. Jean Castel of America, will you?”