"Lying on my bunk!" exclaimed the Staff Officer loudly. "By Gad, sir! I've never yet faced danger lying down. _J'y suis; j'y reste_ is my motto." Before Derek could say anything further the triplane entered the storm-zone. The first blast of disturbed air tilted the giant machine until the planes assumed an angle of seventy degrees to the horizontal. Then, staggering and plunging, the triplane was literally hurled in the opposite direction, until it seemed to be standing on the tips of the starboard wing. It was now almost as dark as the blackest night. Unable to read the clinometer, Derek strove by sense of touch to keep the machine, as far as possible, on an even keel. More than once his feet slipped violently, as if someone had knocked them from under him. It was only by hanging on to the sensitive joy-stick that the pilot saved himself from being hurled bodily against the panelling of the cabin. At one moment literally standing on its tail, at another diving almost vertically, the while lurching from side to side, the triplane battled with the storm. Hail-stones rattled like machine-gun fire against the redoubtable triplex glass. The whole fabric groaned and creaked under the unusual stresses and strains, the disconcerting roar of the storm completely outvoicing the noise of the motors. Whether the engines were still running or not Derek had no means of determining. Literally penned in the enclosed space, he could merely hold on, hoping for the best. This state of things, nerve-racking and appalling in their vehemence, and rendered still more so by reason of the utter darkness, continued for a seemingly endless space of time. Then, almost without warning, the badly-buffeted triplane emerged from the dense pall of the storm-cloud into dazzling sunshine. The first thing that Derek did was to assure himself that the sea-plane was under control. Fortunately such was the case, although there were ominous rents in certain parts of the enormous wing-spread. The triplex glass of the pilot's room still held, although the stout substance was "starred" in many places, as if hit by a bullet. The altimeter registered a height of only one thousand five hundred feet, while a glance at the clock showed that the seemingly interminable passage through the storm had occupied only eleven minutes. Something plucking at Derek's sea-boots attracted his attention. He had forgotten his companion, the Brigadier-General. The latter was lying on his back along the starboard side of the compartment, purple-faced and wellnigh breathless with the unmerciful buffeting he had received. In one of the opposite corners reclined his gold-leafed cap, presenting an appearance hardly compatible with that of a Brigadier-General's head-gear. "That's the stuff to give 'em," thought Derek grimly, as he contemplated the recumbent figure. "I wonder if he's wishing he'd taken my advice."