"It has gone," sighed the boy after a little. "But I did see something. Perhaps it was an eagle. I think it flew just behind the hills there." His eyes ranged the horizon, where the rugged line of white indented the sky. A spot of blue appeared in the pale vault, and a ray of sunlight trickled through. "Look!" cried Marco again, stretching out his hand this time to the north. "There is something moving on the snow." The old man gazed northward, rubbed his eyes, shook his head. "Can you see anything, Nuta?" he asked. "Dark specks, miles and miles away--yes, Father, they are moving. There are more of them. They are like ants." "The Bulgars!" muttered the old man. "Come, we must haste." Returning to the cart, he whipped up the oxen, and the patient beasts, heaving their load out of the drift into which its wheels had settled, hauled it, creaking and groaning, towards the brightening south. II Meanwhile, in a broad gully not far away, a different scene was being enacted. Across the gully lay the tangled ruins of a biplane. From the midst of the wreckage crawled a long figure, in the overalls, helmet, and goggles of a member of the Flying Corps. His goggles had been partially displaced, and lay askew upon his nose. There were spots of blood, already frozen, upon his cheek. His movements were slow and painful, and when, having emerged from the shapeless mass of metal and canvas, he tried to stand erect, he reeled, saved himself from falling by an effort, and dropping upon an adjacent rock, rubbed his eyes, groaned, and sat as one dazed. His immobility lasted only a few moments. Staggering to his feet, his features twisted with pain, he walked unsteadily to the ruins of the aeroplane. "Enderby, old chap," he called, bending down. There was no answer. Swiftly he pulled away the broken wires and fragments of the shattered framework, beneath which the form of his companion was pinned, then knelt and laid his finger on the wrist of the unconscious man. "Thank Heaven!" he murmured. Taking a flask from his pocket he poured a few drops of liquid between the half-open lips, then lifted the man carefully out of the wreckage and laid him down on the slope. Upon his brow he placed a little snow; he repeated his medicinal dose, and watched anxiously. It was some minutes before the eyelids opened, only to close again as a spasm of pain distorted the injured man’s features. "Where is it, old man?" asked Burton. "My leg." The answer came faintly. "It doesn’t hurt you to breathe?" Enderby shook his head. "Arms all right?" And when Enderby had lifted them one after the other, Burton placed the flask in his comrade’s right hand. "Take another pull at that while I have a look at you," he said.