The sound increased in volume. The machine appeared, a distant speck in the clear sky. It grew rapidly larger, flying fast. It was seen to be a biplane. It passed directly over the camp, flying so low that the head of the pilot was plainly visible. In a few minutes it passed from sight. The hum of its engines grew fainter. But till the sound became inaudible no one spoke. Then a babble of inquiry and speculation broke out. Where was the thing going? What was it doing? What did its sudden swift voyage mean? For the rest of the day the camp was less sleepy than usual. Men everywhere discussed the aeroplane. Dalton was not the only one who envied the members of the Flying Corps. It seemed a very desirable thing to be able to rush through the air over unknown deserts; to have the chance of seeing strange and thrilling things, Arab encampments, green oases, mirages, caravans and camels; to drop bombs perhaps on Syrian fortresses; to estimate the numbers of Turkish columns on the march, to reckon their strength in artillery; to take desperate risks; to swerve and dart amid clouds of bursting shrapnel. How much more gloriously exciting such a life than that of men baking slowly in the monotony of a desert camp. Maitland, stimulated by his reading to an unnatural effort of imagination, recognized in the men of the Flying Corps the true successors of Mallory’s adventurous knight-errants. For them war still contained romance. Chivalry was still possible. Haddingly caught the thought and expanded it. Knights of old had this wonderful spirit, because to them the forests through which they roamed were unknown wastes, where all strange things might be expected. Then when all the land became familiar, mapped, intersected with roads, covered thick with towns, sailors inherited the spirit of romance. Afterwards all the seas were charted, policed, and ships went to and fro on ocean highways. The romance of adventure was lost to seamen, lost to the world, until the airmen came and found it again by venturing on new ways. In the evening the aeroplane returned. Once more its engines were heard. Once more it appeared, a speck, a shape, a recognizable thing. But this time it did not pass away. On reaching camp it circled twice, and then, with a long swift glide, took the ground outside the camp a few yards beyond Haddingly’s church of St. John in the Wilderness. The pilot stepped out of the machine. “Good man,” said Dalton. “Friendly of him dropping in on us like this. Must want a drink after that fly. Eight hours at least. I’ll go and bring him along to the mess. Hope he’ll tell us what he’s been doing. Wonder if the Turks potted at him.” The pilot left his machine. He walked stiffly, like a man with cramped limbs, towards the camp. “Something wrong with the engine, perhaps,” said Dalton. “Or he’s short of petrol. I’ll fetch him along. A whisky and soda in a big tumbler is the thing for him. I dare say he’ll stay for dinner.”