<the sun broke in long golden lances from <<amid>> among the silver parapets of clouds, and in its beam he thumbed his nose at
his brother and to the peering pink face of the hun he tended a sweeping, magniloquent salute.>
The mist wraiths were piling shape upon shape into slow cumulae tinged with gold, and above him the
hun and Bayard banked and he could see their downward-staring faces; and at that moment a single
puffing explosion came from beneath his engine cowling and a bubble of heat burst against his face, leaving
him surrounded by a sickening odor of boiling castor oil, and a long orange tongue blistered along the
fuselage fabric and swirled on in the propeller blast to black smoke.
[margin: Without hesitation]
He released the stick and unfastened
his belt and stood upright in the cockpit and dragged his dead legs overside, and sat on the <edge> cockpit
edge with his feet dangling and pushed the stick sharply forward. Just before he jumped the sun broke
in a long golden lance through the silver parapet of the clouds, and in its beam he thumbed his nose at his
brother, and to the peering pink face of the German he made a sweeping magniloquent salute.