Probably when the plane fell the bird took wing, which accounted for its sudden appearance in mid-air.

Probably, also, it had been taught to follow its master; and, indeed, had followed in one superb plunge earthward in the wake of a dead man in a stricken plane.

But—­was this the same bird?

For argument, suppose it was.  Then why did it still hang over Les Errues?  Affection for a dead master?  Only a dog could possibly show such devotion, such constancy.  And besides, birds are incapable of affection.  They only know where to go for kind treatment and security.  And tamed birds, even those species domesticated for centuries, know only one impulse that draws them toward any human protector—­the desire for food.

Could this eagle remember for a whole year that the man who lay dead somewhere in the dusky wilderness of Les Errues had once been kind to him and had fed him?  And was that why the great bird still haunted the air-heights above the forest?  Possibly.

Or was it not more logical to believe that here, suddenly cast upon its own resources, and compelled to employ instincts hitherto uncultivated or forgotten, to satisfy its hunger, this solitary American eagle had found the hunting good?  Probably.  And, knowing no other region, had remained there, and for the first time, or at least after a long interval of captivity and dependence on man, it had discovered what liberty was and with liberty the necessity to struggle for existence.

An airman, watching Dresslin’s thoughtful features, said: 

“You never found out who that Englishman was, did you?

“No.”

“Did our agents search Les Errues?”

“I suppose so.  But I have never heard anything further about that affair,” he shrugged; “and I don’t believe we ever will until after the war, and until—­”

“Until Switzerland belongs to us,” said an airman with a light laugh.

Others, listening, looked at one another significantly, smiling the patient, confident and brooding smile of the Hun.

Knaus unwittingly wrote his character and his epitaph: 

“Ich kann warten.”

The forest of Les Errues was deathly still.  Hunters and hunted both were as silent as the wild things that belonged there in those dim woods—­as cautious, as stealthy.

A dim greenish twilight veiled their movements, the damp carpet of moss dulled sounds.

Yet the hunted knew that they were hunted, realised that pursuit and search were inevitable; and the hunters, no doubt, guessed that their quarry was alert.

Now on the tenth day since their entrance into Les Errues those two Americans who were being hunted came to a little wooded valley through which a swift stream dashed amid rock and fern, flinging spray over every green leaf that bordered it, filling its clear pools with necklaces of floating bubbles.

McKay slipped his pack from his shoulders and set it against a tree.  One of the two carrier pigeons in their cage woke up and ruffled.  Looking closely at the other he discovered it was dead.  His heart sank, but he laid the stiff, dead bird behind a tree and said nothing to his companion.