Lannes' eyes opened and he flushed through the tan of
his face.
"Pardon," he said, "it was a momentary weakness. I am ashamed of myself,
but I shall not faint again."
"You've been shot," said the officer, looking at his sanguinary cap and
face.
"So I have, but I ask your pardon for it. I won't let it occur again."
Lannes was now standing stiffly erect, and his eyes shone with pride, as
the general, a tall, elderly man, rapidly read the letter that Philip
had delivered with his own hand. The officer who had spoken of his wound
looked at him with approval.
"I've heard of you, Philip Lannes," he said, "you're the greatest flying
man in the world."
Lannes' eyes flashed now.
"You do me too much honor," he said, "but it was not I who brought our
aeroplane here. It was my American friend, John Scott, now standing
beside me, who beat off an attack upon us and who then, although he had
had no practical experience in flying, guided the machine to this spot.
Born an American, he is one of us and France already owes him much."
John raised his hand in protest, but he saw that Lannes was enjoying
himself. His dramatic instinct was finding full expression. He had not
only achieved a great triumph, but his best friend had an important
share in it. There was honor for both, and his generous soul rejoiced.
Both John and Lannes stood at attention until the general had read the
letter not once but twice and thrice. Then he took off his glasses,
rubbed them thoughtfully a moment or two, replaced them and looked
keenly at the two.
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