"Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death."

And yet, "pious" is hardly the word. J. B. was swearing, drawing from
a choice reserve of picturesque epithets which I did not know that he
possessed. I regret the necessity of omitting some of them.

"I don't see how I could have missed it! Why, I didn't turn to look
for at least thirty seconds. I was that sure that I had brought it
down. Then I banked and nearly fell out of my seat when I saw it
there. I redressed at four hundred metres. I couldn't have been more
than one hundred metres away when I fired the rockets."

"What did you do then?"

"Circled around, waiting for you. I had the balloon in sight all the
while you were diving. It was a great sight to watch from below,
particularly when you let go your rockets. I'll never forget it,
never. But, Lord! Without the climax! Artistically, it was an awful
fizzle."

There was no denying this. A balloon bonfire was the only possible
conclusion to the adventure, and we both failed at lighting it. I,
too, redressed when very close to the bag, and made a steep bank in
order to escape the burst of flame from the ignited gas. The rockets
leaped out, with a fine, blood-stirring roar. The mere sound ought to
have been enough to make any balloon collapse. But when I turned,
there it was, intact, a super-Brobdingnagian pumpkin, seen at close
view, and still ripe, still ready for plucking. If I live to one
hundred years, I shall never have a greater surprise or a more bitter
disappointment.

There was no leisure for brooding over it then. My altimeter
registered only two hundred and fifty metres, and the French lines
were far distant. If the motor failed I should have to land in German
territory. Any fate but that. Nevertheless, I felt in the pocket of my
combination, to be sure that my box of matches was safely in place. We
were cautioned always to carry them where they could be quickly got
at in case of a forced landing in enemy country. An airman must
destroy his machine in such an event. But my Spad did not mean to end
its career so ingloriously. The motor ran beautifully, hitting on
every cylinder. We climbed from two hundred and fifty metres to three
hundred and fifty, four hundred and fifty, and on steadily upward. In
the vicinity of the balloon, machine-gun fire from the ground had been
fairly heavy; but I was soon out of range, and saw the tracer bullets,
like swarm