“Certainly,” said several airmen at once.

Another added:  “We all know you to be a naturalist.”

“Pardon—­a student only, gentlemen.  Which is why, perhaps, I am both interested and perplexed by this eagle we see every day.”

“It is a rare species?”

“It is not a familiar one to the Alps.”

“This bird, then, is not a German eagle in your opinion, Von Dresslin?”

“What is it?  Asiatic?  African?  Chinese?” asked another.

Von Dresslin’s eyebrows became knitted.

“That eagle which we all see every day in the sky above Les Errues,” he said slowly, “has a snow-white crest and tail.”

Several airmen nodded; one said:  “I have noticed that, too, watching the bird through my binoculars.”

“I know,” continued Von Dresslin slowly, “of only one species of eagle which resembles the bird we all see every day...  It inhabits North America,” he added thoughtfully.

There was a silence, then a very young airman inquired whether Von Dresslin knew of any authentic reports of an American eagle being seen in Europe.

“Authentic?  That is somewhat difficult to answer,” replied Von Dresslin, with the true caution of a real naturalist.  “But I venture to tell you that, once before—­nearly a year ago now—­I saw an eagle in this same region which had a white crest and tail and was otherwise a shining bronze in colour.”

“Where did you see such a bird?”

“High in the air over Mount Terrible.”  A deep and significant silence fell over the little company.  If Count von Dresslin had seen such an eagle over the Swiss peak called Mount Terrible, and had been near enough to notice the bird’s colour, every man there knew what had been the occasion.

For only once had that particular region of Switzerland been violated by their aircraft during the war.  It had happened a year ago when Von Dresslin, patrolling the north Swiss border, had discovered a British flyer planing low over Swiss territory in the air-region between Mount Terrible and the forest of Les Errues.

Instantly the Hun, too, crossed the line:  and the air-battle was joined above the forest.

Higher, higher, ever higher mounted the two fighting planes until the earth had fallen away two miles below them.

Then, out of the icy void of the upper air-space, now roaring with their engines’ clamour, the British plane shot earthward, down, down, rushing to destruction like a shooting-star, and crashed in the forest of Les Errues.

And where it had been, there in mid-air, hung an eagle with a crest as white as the snow on the shining peaks below.

“He seemed suddenly to be there instead of the British plane,” said Von Dresslin.  “I saw him distinctly—­might have shot him with my pistol as he sheered by me, his yellow eyes aflame, balanced on broad wings.  So near he swept that his bright fierce eyes flashed level with mine, and for an instant I thought he meant to attack me.