To assist the unfortunate Staff Officer was out of the question, for all Derek's attention had to be devoted to keeping the triplane under control. Although clear of the storm-cloud, the machine was still rocking in the wind-eddies in the wake of the violent gale. Presently the Brigadier-General sat up and groped for his displaced head-gear. "By Jove, young man," he exclaimed, "that was a twister! Thought we were done in this time. Wish I'd taken your advice." "It certainly was a bit thick, sir," replied Derek, ignoring the latter part of the Brigadier's remarks, which so closely coincided with his own unspoken thoughts. "But it's all over now. Everything points to a good passage for the rest of the run." The remainder of the flight turned out as Daventry had predicted. In a clear sky, and in the full blaze of the sunshine, the triplane, pelting along as fast as the skilled engineer knew how to make her go, was rapidly decreasing the distance between her and the rugged hills of northern Spain. "Land right ahead!" [Illustration: IT WAS A CASE OF TAKING ONE'S CHANCE WITH THE APPROACHING STORM] This announcement, coming from the lips of one of the crew, roused Derek's failing energies, for, unprepared for the journey, and desperately hungry, he was beginning to feel the effects of mental and physical strain. Low down to the south'ard he could discern a serrated range of hills, looming up dark-blue against the pale azure sky. Away to the westward the land terminated abruptly, although Derek thought he could distinguish more high ground beyond. "Must be Cape Ortegal; and the other land is Cape Finisterre," he decided. "I'm only between ten to twenty miles out in my reckoning. Not bad for a first attempt." Altering helm, Daventry made straight for the land that he supposed to be Cape Ortegal. Flying at two hundred miles an hour does not give a pilot much time to make up his mind. He must decide quickly and definitely. A few minutes later the Staff Officer, who had retired for repairs and refreshment, entered the pilot's cabin. "You're doing well," he remarked. "I know this part of Spain intimately, and we are heading straight for Corunna. You'll see the harbour in a few minutes. But you look a bit done up. Try a drop of this." And he handed Derek a flask. The pilot accepted the liquid gratefully. It acted as a stimulus, although he drank sparingly. "There you are!" continued the Brigadier-General, as an apparently narrow slip of water appeared in view between the enclosing high ground. "That's Corunna Harbour. I'll tell you when to--er--alight. I was almost on the point of saying 'land'." "Quite a professional term in the R.A.F., sir," rejoined Derek. "Without being guilty of perpetrating an Irish bull, one may correctly apply the term 'land' to flying-boats and sea-planes alighting on the water. What space do I want? Two hundred yards will be ample, sir, and the harbour doesn't seem to be crowded."