The fleets of flyers were larger than usual, as if they were anxious to
take the fresh air, after days of storm. But the most daring and
skillful of all the airmen, Philip Lannes, was not there. He still lay
in a hospital a hundred miles to the west, with a bullet wound in his
shoulder, and while the time was to come when the _Arrow_ under his
practiced hand would once more be queen of the heavens, it was yet many
days away.

The sun rose higher, suffusing the frosty blue heavens with a luminous
golden glow, but John slept heavily on. He had not known how near to
exhaustion was his nervous system. Perhaps it was less physical
exhaustion than emotion, which can make huge drains upon the system. Now
he was in the keeping of nature which was restoring all his powers of
both mind and body, and keeping him there until he should again have all
his strength and all the keenness of his faculties, needful for the
great work that lay before him.

It was halfway toward noon when he awakened, remembered dimly in the
first instant, and then comprehending everything in the second. He
unrolled the blankets, slipped out of his lair and knew by the height of
the sun that he had slept far beyond the time appointed for himself. But
he did not worry over it. Barring a little stiffness, which he removed
by flexing and tensing his muscles, he felt very strong and capable. The
fresh air pouring into his lungs was so different from the corruption of
the trenches that he seemed to be raised upon wings.

He resumed his walk toward the hills, and ate breakfast from his
knapsack as he went along. Presently he noticed a large aeroplane
circling over his head, and he felt sure that it was observing him. It