He was over the second embankment when the final crisis came. Were these foes or friends that were popping up, pointing weapons at those behind? Friends surely! Down he had better go. The pain was so acute that only one arm was now at his service, while the dizziness that accompanies the pain of severe gun wounds filled his brain, dimmed his eyes, palsied his last despairing effort to land somehow behind that sheltering embankment. Just then came a last explosion close behind. He seemed to be going down, down -- where? Then a terrific shock, and all consciousness left him. The shock seemed to drive from him all notion of anything or anybody. He knew nothing, nothing - nothing -- When at last Orris Erwin again knew that he was in the land of the living he was in a base hospital behind the front, and not far from his own aerodrome. His shoulder was in bandages. His left arm was in splints, but not painful. What seemed to be other bandages swathed his lower legs. Altogether he felt himself to be in pretty bad shape. Then appeared Sergeant Anson who, seeing that Erwin was now awake and sensible, paused, a dry grin upon his weather-worn visage. "Huh! Where's that Bleriot you or Blaine were to bring back?" But the smile that accompanied this was not condemnatory by any means. "I stuck to it, sir, long as I could stick to anything. How do I happen to be trussed up this way here?" For a first reply the Sergeant threw back his head and gave vent to a real laugh. Then he patted Orry's curly head gently. "You'll know in due time, youngster! Where's your pilot, Lafe Blaine?" "Isn't Blaine back, too, and in that Death's Head Boche plane he -- we took from them back of their lines? As for the Bleriot, I was in it last I remember." Here the door of the ward opened, and who should walk in but Blaine himself, with Monsieur Cheval following. Cheval wore upon his breast a silver medal resembling nothing so much as an ace. For a wonder Blaine himself wore a tricolor ribbon with a tiny gold cross that Erwin was sure he had never seen his athletic countryman have before. At sight of Erwin's pale face and rather fragile form, now animated with conversational fire and energy, the big American turned to his French comrade, saying: "There, my friend! Did I not tell you that our brave little comrade would be more like himself today than he has been any time these ten days? Say little one," bending over Orry affectionately, "have you got over that nasty spell yet? Ha -- I guess so!" "Where's that Bleriot the Sergeant said we must bring back? I was in it when -- when the Boches or -- or the devil got me." "That Bleriot, like yourself, mon comrade, is in the hospital; that is, the repair shop." This from Monsieur Cheval, still wearing his right arm in a sling, though now divested of splints.