It did not last long. The man who was alone was attacking boldly. Time after time his machine-gun flashed forth flames. Then, to avoid the enemy's bullets, he looped the loop twice, each time throwing his aeroplane in such a position that I was able to distinguish on the canvas the three concentric circles that denote the Allied machines. Then, coming nearer and attacking his adversaries from behind, he returned to his gun. The Hun biplane--I observed the iron cross--dived straight for the ground and recovered itself. The two men seemed to be sitting tight under their furs and masks. There was a third machine-gun attack. The pilot threw up his hands. The biplane capsized and fell. I saw this fall in the most inexplicable fashion. At first, of course, it seemed swift as lightning. And then it became infinitely slow and even ceased, with the machine overturned and the two bodies _motionless, head downwards and arms outstretched_. Then the ground shot up with a dizzy speed, devastated, shell-holed fields, swarming with thousands of French _poilus_. The biplane came down beside a river. From the shapeless fuselage and the shattered wings two legs appeared. And the French plane landed almost immediately, a short way off. The victor stepped out, pushed back the soldiers who had run up from every side and, moving a few yards towards his motionless prey, took off his mask and made the sign of the cross. "Oh," I whispered, "this is dreadful! And how mysterious! . . ." Then I saw that Noël Dorgeroux was on his knees, his face distorted with emotion: "What is it, uncle?" I asked. Stretching towards the wall his trembling hands, which were clasped together, he stammered: "Dominique! I recognize my son! It's he! Oh, I'm terrified!" I also, as I gazed at the victor, recovered in my memory the time-effaced image of my poor cousin. "It's he!" continued my uncle. "I was right . . . the expression of the Three Eyes. . . . Oh! I can't look! . . . I'm afraid!" "Afraid of what, uncle?" "They are going to kill him . . . to kill him before my eyes . . . to kill him as they actually did kill him . . . Dominique! Dominique! Take care!" he shouted. I did not shout: what warning cry could reach the man about to die? But the same terror brought me to my knees and made me wring my hands. In front of us, from underneath the shapeless mass, among the heaped-up wreckage, something rose up, the swaying body of one of the victims. An arm was extended, aiming a revolver. The victor sprang to one side. It was too late. Shot through the head, he spun round upon his heels and fell beside the dead body of his murderer. The tragedy was over. My uncle, bent double, was sobbing pitifully a few paces from my side. He had witnessed the actual death of his son, foully murdered in the great war by a German airman! CHAPTER V THE KISS