"Rep-r-r-r-r-r----!" as the raider swept the machine gun posts. At this very instant, however, the sound of whistling wires came suddenly from overhead, as something swooped down from the dizzy heights upon the attacker. Then the sharp crackle of a Vickers gun rent the air, as, in a headlong dive of two thousand feet, the Bristol Fighter hurtled down, spitting fire through the whirling propeller, and driving its quarry almost to the ground by its unexpected onslaught. By a miracle almost, the _Scorpion_ escaped a terrible crash, flattening out within two feet of the ground in the middle of the glade, then started its upward climb to out-manoeuvre its new opponent, for the rest of this terrific combat was confined to the air. The little garrison below came out to see this thrilling spectacle, and even the wounded German raised himself to watch the _Scorpion_, as he expected, give its _coup de grâce_ to its clumsy opponent. The fight now was for altitude, dead angles, and the blind side of each opponent, but more especially for altitude, for this is the equivalent in an aerial duel of the windward position, in the days of the old frigates. Once, after climbing on the turn, the two machines approached each other dead on, and each opened a burst of fire simultaneously on its opponent. Carl, the scout pilot, was handling the solitary gun, and, if his aim had been more steady, that would have marked the finish of the fight. On the other hand Keane’s bullets pattered with unerring aim upon the armoured conning-tower, but with little effect, for so far the finely-tempered steel resisted even these armour-piercing bullets. The watchers down below trembled with rage--all save the German--when they saw this fearful waste of markmanship, but up there, calm and collected, the British pilot clenched his teeth and muttered:-- "I must find his dead angle! I will attack him from below." Then followed a series of thrilling manoeuvres, in which the daring skill of the Englishman alone saved him from his too-powerful opponent. The _Scorpion_, using its superior speed, made a desperate effort to sit upon its opponent’s tail, a deadly position if it could only be attained. But, looping, banking, sideslipping and occasionally spinning, the Bristol out-manoeuvred its enemy every time. "Shade of Richthofen!" exclaimed the infuriated Spitzer; "but this _verdammt_ Britisher is some pilot." Carl had become nervous and agitated at the gun, and his shooting had begun to annoy his leader, who shouted angrily, "Let Max take the gun, dachshund!" But Max was huddled up in the bottom of the cockpit with an English bullet through his head; he had fired his last shot. "Blitz! Here he comes again!" shouted the German pilot, as his opponent in the roaring Bristol, with engine full out, made as though he would ram his enemy in mid-air, though such was not his intention.