“I had hoped to reach an eternal stillness in these high altitudes, but with every thousand feet of ascent the gale grew stronger.  My machine groaned and trembled in every joint and rivet as she faced it, and swept away like a sheet of paper when I banked her on the turn, skimming down wind at a greater pace, perhaps, than ever mortal man has moved.  Yet I had always to turn again and tack up in the wind’s eye, for it was not merely a height record that I was after.  By all my calculations it was above little Wiltshire that my air-jungle lay, and all my labour might be lost if I struck the outer layers at some farther point.

“When I reached the nineteen-thousand-foot level, which was about midday, the wind was so severe that I looked with some anxiety to the stays of my wings, expecting momentarily to see them snap or slacken.  I even cast loose the parachute behind me, and fastened its hook into the ring of my leathern belt, so as to be ready for the worst.  Now was the time when a bit of scamped work by the mechanic is paid for by the life of the aeronaut.  But she held together bravely.  Every cord and strut was humming and vibrating like so many harp-strings, but it was glorious to see how, for all the beating and the buffeting, she was still the conqueror of Nature and the mistress of the sky.  There is surely something divine in man himself that he should rise so superior to the limitations which Creation seemed to impose—­rise, too, by such unselfish, heroic devotion as this air-conquest has shown.  Talk of human degeneration!  When has such a story as this been written in the annals of our race?

“These were the thoughts in my head as I climbed that monstrous, inclined plane with the wind sometimes beating in my face and sometimes whistling behind my ears, while the cloud-land beneath me fell away to such a distance that the folds and hummocks of silver had all smoothed out into one flat, shining plain.  But suddenly I had a horrible and unprecedented experience.  I have known before what it is to be in what our neighbours have called a tourbillon, but never on such a scale as this.  That huge, sweeping river of wind of which I have spoken had, as it appears, whirlpools within it which were as monstrous as itself.  Without a moment’s warning I was dragged suddenly into the heart of one.  I spun round for a minute or two with such velocity that I almost lost my senses, and then fell suddenly, left wing foremost, down the vacuum funnel in the centre.  I dropped like a stone, and lost nearly a thousand feet.  It was only my belt that kept me in my seat, and the shock and breathlessness left me hanging half-insensible over the side of the fuselage.  But I am always capable of a supreme effort—­it is my one great merit as an aviator.  I was conscious that the descent was slower.  The whirlpool was a cone rather than a funnel, and I had come to the apex.  With a terrific wrench, throwing my weight