The second time the balloon rose above the forest I had, from my elevated perch, observed a fairly broad path across the wood, which looked as if it might lead to some neighbouring village. I kept this path in my memory and, while our balloon was engaged in its last struggle, I tried to take note of our movements in order not to lose the direction of this path. So much so that, when at last we touched the ground, I was able to find it. I left my companions to watch near the wrecked balloon and bent my steps to the left in order to find the way. I had not been mistaken. After walking for scarcely ten minutes, I found the path I was looking for. Happy at my discovery, I was about to return through the wood to tell my companions, when I saw a man leave the thicket on the other side of the road and come towards me. What manner of man was this, and what did he want with me? What singular chance had driven him to this wood in such weather? It was still raining in torrents. Instead of returning through the undergrowth, as I had intended, to find my fellow-travellers, I made as if I were looking for shelter from the rain, and stood with my back against a tree. In this position I could wait for the unknown to come up, and could examine him while he crossed the road to reach me. He at once came forward. He was well dressed and had the appearance of a man of means. He looked neither like a peasant nor like a dweller in large towns, and it was difficult to guess exactly what kind of individual I had to deal with. He seemed, however, to be looking for me, for he walked directly towards me and crossed the path, bearing towards the point where I was standing. What was this man, friend or enemy? What could I say to him, and how should I speak to him, in French or in German? I thought it would be best not to say anything and to wait till he addressed me. “Bon jour, Monsieur,” said he, on coming up. I returned his greeting. “Have you been here long?” he asked me. “No.” “Where have you come from?” he continued. I began to be reassured and noticed that my unknown spoke with the Alsatian accent. But the Alsatian accent is very similar to the German, and was not Alsace entirely occupied by the enemy? Such were my thoughts on hearing him, and instead of answering his question, I asked him point-blank, “Are you French, Monsieur?” And as I asked I looked him well in the face and did not take my eyes from his, trying to read into his soul. “Oui, Monsieur,” was his answer, and the “Oui, Monsieur” was pronounced simply and with a frankness that concealed nothing and invited confidence. I felt he had spoken the truth. I held out my hand and said: “Well, Monsieur, I am also a Frenchman. We have come from Paris and our balloon has just come down in this forest....”