The Forest of Swords: A Story of Paris and the Marne

THE CONTINUING BATTLE

The Arrow bore in toward the Omnibus. Wharton had put his rifle aside and was staring downward as if he would see the wreck that he had made. Lannes called to him loudly:

"You've saved us all!"

Wharton looked rather white, but he shouted back:

"I had no other choice."

The French aeroplanes were around them now, their motors drumming steadily and the aviators shouting congratulations to Lannes and Caumartin, whom they knew well. It was a friendly group, full of pride and exultation, and the Arrow and the Omnibus had a triumphant escort. Soon they were directly over the French, and then they began their descent. As usual, when they reached the army they made it amid cheers, and the first man who greeted John was short and young but with a face of pride.

"You have come back to us out of the air, Monsieur Scott," he said, "and I salute you."

It was Pierre Louis Bougainville, made a colonel already for extraordinary, almost unprecedented, valor and ability in so young a man. John recognized his rank by his uniform, and he acknowledged it gladly.

"It's true, I have come back, Colonel Bougainville," he said, "and right glad I am to come. I see that your country has had no cause to complain of you in the last week."

"Nor of hundreds of thousands of Frenchmen," said Bougainville. "Your company, the Strangers, is close at hand, and here is your captain now."

Captain Daniel Colton, thin and ascetic, walked forward. John gave him his best salute and said:

"Captain Colton, I beg to report to you for duty."

A light smile passed swiftly over Cotton's face.

"You're a little late, Lieutenant Scott," he said.

"I know it, sir, but I've brought Lieutenant Carstairs and Lieutenant Wharton with me. There have been obstacles which prevented our speedy return. We've done our best."

"I can well believe it. You left on horseback, and you return by air. But I'm most heartily glad to see all three of you again. I feared that you were dead."

"Thank you, sir," said John. "But we don't mean to die."

"Nevertheless," said Captain Colton, gravely, "death has been all about us for days and nights. Many of the Strangers are gone. You will find the living lying in the little valley just beyond us, and you can resume your duties."

Lannes, after a word or two, left them, and Caumartin took the Omnibus to another part of the field. Lannes' importance was continually growing in John's eyes, nor was it the effect of imagination. He saw that under the new conditions of warfare the ability of the young Frenchman to carry messages between generals separated widely could not be overrated. He might depart that very night on another flight.

"May I ask, sir," he said to Captain Colton, "to what command or division the Strangers are now attached?"

"To that of General Vaugirard, a very able man."

"I'm glad to hear it, sir. I know him. I was with him before I was taken by the Germans."

"It seems that you're about to have a general reunion," said Carstairs to young Scott, as they walked away.

"I am, and I'm mighty happy over it. I'll admit that I was rather glad to see you, you blooming Britisher."

About one-third of the Strangers were gone forever, and the rest, except the higher officers, were prostrate in the glade. White, worn and motionless they lay in the same stupor that John had seen overtake the German troops. Some were flat upon their backs, with arms outstretched, looking like crosses, others lay on their faces, and others were curled up on their sides. Few were over twenty-five. Nearly all had mothers in America or Great Britain.

While they slept the guns yet grumbled at many points. The sound on the horizon had gone on so long now that it seemed normal to John. He knew that it would continue so throughout the night, and maybe for many more days and nights. Unless it came near and made him a direct personal menace he would pay no attention to it.

It was growing late. Night was spreading once more over the vast battle field, stretching over thirty leagues maybe. The common soldier knew nothing, majors and colonels knew little more, but the silent man whose invisible hand had swept the gigantic German army back from Paris knew much. While the fire of the artillery continued under the searchlights the exhausted infantry sank down. Then the telephones began to talk over a vast stretch of space, dazzling white lights made signals, the sputtering wireless sent messages in the air, and the flying machines shot through the heavens. Commanders talked to one another in many ways now, and they would talk all through the night.

John and his comrades ate supper, while most of the Strangers slept around them. Those who were awake recognized them, shook hands and said a few words. They were a taciturn lot. After supper Carstairs and Wharton dropped upon the grass and were soon sound asleep. Scott was inclined to be wakeful and he walked along the edge of the glade, looking anxiously at the sleeping forms.

He saw the loom of a fire just beyond the ridge and going to the crest to look at it he beheld outlined before it a gigantic figure that he recognized at once. It was General Vaugirard, and John would have been glad to speak to him, but he hesitated to approach a general. While he stood doubting a hand fell upon his shoulder and a glad voice said in his ear:

"And our young American has come back! Ah, my friend, let me shake your hand!"

It was Captain de Rougemont, trim, erect and without a wound. John gladly let him shake. Then in reply to de Rougemont's eager questions he told briefly of all that had happened since they parted.

"The general has asked twice if we had any news of you," said de Rougemont. "He does not forget. A great mind in a vast body."

"Could I speak to him?"

"Of a certainty, my friend; come."

They advanced toward the fire. General Vaugirard was walking up and down, his hands clasped behind his back, and whistling softly. His huge figure looked yet more huge outlined against the flames. He heard the tread of the two young men and looking up recognized John instantly.

"Risen from the dead!" he exclaimed with warmth, clasping the young man's hand in his own gigantic palm. "I had despaired of ever seeing you again! There are so many more gallant lads whom I will certainly never see! Ah, well, such is life! The roll of our brave young dead is long, very long!"

He reclasped his hands behind his back and walking up and down began to whistle again softly. His emotion over the holocaust had passed, and once more he was the general planning for victory. But he stopped presently and said to John:

"The Strangers, to whom you belong, have come under my command. You are one of my children now. I have my eye on all of you. You are brave lads. Go and seek rest with them while you can. You may not have another chance in a month. We have driven the German, but he will turn, and then we may fight weeks, months, no one knows how long. Ah, well, such is life!"

John saluted respectfully, and withdrew to the little open glade in which the Strangers were lying, sleeping a great sleep. Captain Colton himself, wrapped in a blanket, was now a-slumber under a tree, and Wharton and Carstairs near by, stretched on their sides, were deep in slumber too. Fires were burning on the long line, but they were not numerous, and in the distance they seemed mere pin points. At times bars of intense white light, like flashes of lightning, would sweep along the front, showing that the searchlights of either army still provided illumination for the fighting. The note of the artillery came like a distant and smothered groan, but it did not cease, and it would not cease, since the searchlights would show it a way all through the night.

John sat down, looked at the faint flashes on the far horizon and listened to that moaning which grew in volume as one paid close attention to it. Europe or a great part of it had gone mad. He was filled once more with wrath against kings and all their doings as he looked upon the murderous aftermath of feudalism, the most gigantic of all wars, made in a few hours by a few men sitting around a table. Then he laughed at himself. What was he! A mere feather in a cyclone! Certainly he had been blown about like one!

His nervous imagination now passed quickly and throwing himself upon the ground he slept like those around him. All the Strangers were awakened at early dawn by the signal of a trumpet, and when John opened his eyes he found the air still quivering beneath the throb of the guns. As he had foreseen they had never ceased in the darkness, and he could not remember how many days and nights now they had been raining steel upon human beings.

He was refreshed and strengthened by a night of good sleep, but his mind was as sensitive as ever. In the morning no less bitterly than at night he raged against the folly and ambition of the kings. But the others paid no attention to the cannon. They were light of heart and easy of tongue. They chaffed one another in the cool dawn, and cried to the cooks for breakfast, which was soon brought to them, hot and plentiful.

"I suppose it's forward again," said Carstairs between drinks of coffee.

"I fancy you're right," said Wharton. "Since we've been put in the brigade of that giant of a general, Vaugirard, we're always going forward. He seems to have an uncommon love of fighting for a fat man."

"It's an illusion," said John, "that a fat man is more peaceful than a thin one."

"How are you going to prove it?" asked Wharton.

"Look at Napoleon. When he was thin he was a great fighter, and when he became stout he was just as great a fighter as ever. Fat didn't take away his belligerency."

"I hear that the whole German army has been driven across the Marne," said Carstairs, "and that the force we hoped to cut off has either escaped or is about to escape. If that's so they won't retreat much further. The pride of the Germans is too great, and their army is too powerful for them to yield much more ground to us."

"I think you're right, or about as near right as an Englishman can be, Carstairs," said John. "What must be the feelings of the Emperor and the kings and the princes and the grand dukes and the dukes and the martial professors to know that the German army has been turned back from Paris, just when the City of Light seemed ready to fall into their hands?"

"Pretty bitter, I think," said Carstairs, "but it's not pleasant to have the capital of a country fall into the hands of hostile armies. I don't read of such things with delight. It wouldn't give me any such overwhelming joy for us to march into Berlin. To beat the Germans is enough."

Another trumpet blew and the Strangers rose for battle again with an invisible enemy. All the officers, like the men, were on foot, their horses having been killed in the earlier fighting, and they advanced slowly across the stubble of a wheat field. The morning was still cool, although the sun was bright, and the air was full of vigor. The rumbling of the artillery grew with the day, but the Strangers said little. Battle had ceased to be a novelty. They would fight somewhere and with somebody, but they would wait patiently and without curiosity until the time came.

"I suppose Lannes didn't come back," said Carstairs. "I haven't heard anyone speak of seeing him this morning."

"He may have returned before we awoke," said John. "The Arrow flies very fast. Like as not he delivered his message, whatever it was, and was off again with another in a few minutes. He may be sixty or eighty miles from here now."

"Odd fellow that Lannes," said Carstairs. "Do you know anything about his people, Scott?"

"Not much except that he has a mother and sister. I spent a night with them at their house in Paris. I've heard that French family ties are strong, but they seemed to look upon him as the weak would regard a great champion, a knight, in their own phrase, without fear and without reproach."

"That speaks well for him."

John's mind traveled back to that modest house across the Seine. It had done so often during all the days and nights of fighting, and he thought of Julie Lannes in her simple white dress, Julie with the golden hair and the bluest of blue eyes. She had not seemed at all foreign to him. In her simplicity and openness she was like one of the young girls of his own country. French custom might have compelled a difference at other times, but war was a great leveler of manners. She and her mother must have suffered agonies of suspense, when the guns were thundering almost within hearing of Paris, suspense for Philip, suspense for their country, and suspense in a less degree for themselves. Maybe Lannes had gone back once in the Arrow to show them that he was safe, and to tell them that, for the time at least, the great German invasion had been rolled back.

"A penny for your dream!" said Carstairs.

"Not for a penny, nor for a pound, nor for anything else," said John. "This dream of mine had something brilliant and beautiful and pure at the very core of it, and I'm not selling."

Carstairs looked curiously at him, and a light smile played across his face. But the smile was sympathetic.

"I'll wager you that with two guesses I can tell the nature of your dream," he said.

John shook his head, and he, too, smiled.

"As we say at home," he said, "you may guess right the very first time, but I won't tell you whether you're right or wrong."

"I take only one guess. That coruscating core of your dream was a girl."

"I told you I wouldn't say whether you were right or wrong."

"Is she blonde or dark?"

"I repeat that I'm answering no questions."

"Does she live in one of your Northern or one of your Southern States?"

John smiled.

"I suppose you haven't heard from her in a long time, as mail from across the water isn't coming with much regularity to this battle field."

John smiled again.

"And now I'll conclude," said Carstairs, speaking very seriously. "If it is a girl, and I know it is, I hope that she'll smile when she thinks of you, as you've been smiling when you think of her. I hope, too, that you'll go through this war without getting killed, although the chances are three or four to one against it, and go back home and win her."

John smiled once more and was silent, but when Carstairs held out his hand he could not keep from shaking it. Then Paris, the modest house beyond the Seine, and the girl within it, floated away like an illusion, driven from thought in an instant by a giant shell that struck within a few hundred yards of them, exploding with a terrible crash and filling the air with deadly bits of flying shell.

There was such a whistling in his ears that John thought at first he had been hit, but when he shook himself a little he found he was unhurt, and his heart resumed its normal beat. Other shells coming out of space began to strike, but none so near, and the Strangers went calmly on. On their right was a Paris regiment made up mostly of short, but thick-chested men, all very dark. Its numbers were only one-third what they had been a week before, and its colonel was Pierre Louis Bougainville, late Apache, late of the Butte Montmartre. All the colonels, majors and captains of this regiment had been killed and he now led it, earning his promotion by the divine right of genius. He, at least, could look into his knapsack and see there the shadow of a marshal's baton, a shadow that might grow more material.

John watched him and he wondered at this transformation of a rat of Montmartre into a man. And yet there had been many such transformations in the French Revolution. What had happened once could always happen again. Napoleon himself had been the son of a poor little lawyer in a distant and half-savage island, not even French in blood, but an Italian and an alien.

Crash! Another shell burst near, and told him to quit thinking of old times and attend to the business before him. The past had nothing more mighty than the present. The speed of the Strangers was increased a little, and the French regiments on either side kept pace with them. More shells fell. They came, shrieking through the air like hideous birds of remote ages. Some passed entirely over the advancing troops, but one fell among the French on John's right, and the column opening out, passed shudderingly around the spot where death had struck.

Two or three of the Strangers were blown away presently. It seemed to John's horrified eyes that one of them entirely vanished in minute fragments. He knew now what annihilation meant.

The heavy French field guns behind them were firing over their heads, but there was still nothing in front, merely the low green hills and not even a flash of flame nor a puff of smoke. The whistling death came out of space.

The French went on, a wide shallow valley opened out before them, and they descended by the easy slope into it. Here the German shells and shrapnel ceased to fall among them, but, as the heavy thunder continued, John knew the guns had merely turned aside their fire for other points on the French line. Carstairs by his side gave an immense sigh of relief.

"I can never get used to the horrible roaring and groaning of those shells," he said. "If I get killed I'd like it to be done without the thing that does it shrieking and gloating over me."

They were well in the valley now, and John noticed that along its right ran a dense wood, fresh and green despite the lateness of the season. But as he looked he heard the shrill snarling of many trumpets, and, for a moment or two, his heart stood still, as a vast body of German cavalry burst from the screen of the wood and rushed down upon them.

It was not often in this war that cavalry had a great chance, but here it had come. The ambush was complete. The German signals, either from the sky or the hills, had told when the French were in the valley, and then the German guns had turned aside their fire for the very good reason that they did not wish to send shells among their own men.

John's feeling was one of horrified surprise. The German cavalry extending across a mile of front seemed countless. Imagination in that terrific moment magnified them into millions. He saw the foaming mouths, the white teeth and the flashing eyes of the horses, and then the tense faces and eyes of their riders. Lances and sabers were held aloft, and the earth thundered with the tread of the mounted legions.

"Good God!" cried Wharton.

"Wheel, men, wheel!" shouted Captain Colton.

As they turned to face the rushing tide of steel, the regiment of Bougainville whirled on their flank and then Bougainville was almost at his side. He saw fire leap from the little man's eye. He saw him shout commands, rapid incisive, and correct and he saw clearly that if this were Napoleon's day that marshal's baton in the knapsack would indeed become a reality.

The Paris regiment, kneeling, was the first to fire, and the next instant flame burst from the rifles of the Strangers. It was not a moment too soon. It seemed to many of the young Americans and Englishmen that they had been ridden down already, but sheet after sheet of bullets fired by men, fighting for their lives, formed a wall of death.

The Uhlans, the hussars and the cuirassiers reeled back in the very moment of triumph. Horses with their riders crashed to the ground, and others, mad with terror, rushed wildly through the French ranks.

John, Carstairs and Wharton snatched up rifles, all three, and began to fire with the men as fast as they could. A vast turmoil, frightful in its fury, followed. The German cavalry reeled back, but it did not retreat. The shrill clamor of many trumpets came again, and once more the horsemen charged. The sheet of death blazed in their faces again, and then the French met them with bayonet.

The Strangers had closed in to meet the shock. John felt rather than saw Carstairs and Wharton on either side of him, and the three of them were firing cartridge after cartridge into the light whitish smoke that hung between them and the charging horsemen. He was devoutly thankful that the Paris regiment was immediately on their right, and that it was led by such a man as Bougainville. General Vaugirard, he knew, was farther to their left, and now he began to hear the rapid firers, pouring a rain of death upon the cavalry.

"We win! we win!" cried Carstairs. "If they couldn't beat us down in the first rush they can't beat us down at all!"

Carstairs was right. The French had broken into no panic, and, when, infantry standing firm, pour forth the incessant and deadly stream of death, that modern arms make possible, no cavalry can live before them. Yet the Germans charged again and again into the hurricane of fire and steel. The tumult of the battle face to face became terrific.

John could no longer hear the words of his comrades. He saw dimly through the whitish smoke in front, but he continued to fire. Once he leaped aside to let a wounded and riderless horse gallop past, and thrice he sprang over the bodies of the dead.

The infantry were advancing now, driving the cavalry before them, and the French were able to bring their lighter field guns into action. John heard the rapid crashes, and he saw the line of cavalry drawing back. He, too, was shouting with triumph, although nobody heard him. But all the Strangers were filled with fiery zeal. Without orders they rushed forward, driving the horsemen yet further. John saw through the whitish mist a fierce face and a powerful arm swinging aloft a saber.

He recognized von Boehlen and von Boehlen recognized him. Shouting, the Prussian urged his horse at him and struck him with the saber. John, under impulse, dropped to his knees, and the heavy blade whistled above him. But something else struck him on the head and he fell senseless to the earth.

JULIE LANNES

John Scott came slowly out of the darkness and hovered for a while between dusk and light. It was not an unpleasant world in which he lingered. It seemed full of rest and peace. His mind and body were relaxed, and there was no urgent call for him to march and to fight. The insistent drumming of the great guns which could play upon the nervous system until it was wholly out of tune was gone. The only sound he heard was that of a voice, a fresh young voice, singing a French song in a tone low and soft. He had always liked these little love songs of the kind that were sung in a subdued way. They were pathetic and pure as a rose leaf.

He might have opened his eyes and looked for the singer, but he did not. The twilight region between sleep and consciousness was too pleasant. He had no responsibilities, nothing to do. He had a dim memory that he had belonged to an army, that it was his business to try to kill some one, and to try to keep from getting killed, but all that was gone now. He could lie there, without pain of body or anxiety of mind, and let vague but bright visions pass through his soul.

His eyes still closed, he listened to the voice. It was very low, scarcely more than a murmur, yet it was thrillingly sweet. It might not be a human voice, after all, just the distant note of a bird in the forest, or the murmur of a brave little stream, or a summer wind among green leaves.

He moved a little and became conscious that he was not going back into that winter region of dusk. His soul instead was steadily moving toward the light. The beat of his heart grew normal, and then memory in a full tide rushed upon him. He saw the great cavalry battle with all its red turmoil, the savage swing of von Boehlen's saber and himself drifting out into the darkness.

He opened his eyes, the battle vanished, and he saw himself lying upon a low, wooden platform. His head rested upon a small pillow, a blanket was under him, and another above him. Turning slowly he saw other men wrapped in blankets like himself on the platform in a row that stretched far to right and left. Above was a low roof, but both sides of the structure were open.

He understood it all in a moment. He had come back to a world of battle and wounds, and he was one of the wounded. But he listened for the soft, musical note which he believed now, in his imaginative state, had drawn him from the mid-region between life and death.

The stalwart figure of a woman in a somber dress with a red cross sewed upon it passed between him and the light, but he knew that it was not she who had been singing. He closed his eyes in disappointment, but reopened them. A man wearing a white jacket and radiating an atmosphere of drugs now walked before him. He must be a surgeon. At home, surgeons wore white jackets. Beyond doubt he was one and maybe he was going to stop at John's cot to treat some terrible wound of which he was not yet conscious. He shivered a little, but the man passed on, and his heart beat its relief.

Then a soldier took his place in the bar of light. He was a short, thick man in a ridiculous, long blue coat, and equally ridiculous, baggy, red trousers. An obscure cap was cocked in an obscure manner over his ears, and his face was covered with a beard, black, thick and untrimmed. He carried a rifle over his shoulder and nobody could mistake him for anything but a Frenchman. Then he was not a prisoner again, but was in French hands. That, at least, was a consolation.

It was amusing to lie there and see the people, one by one, pass between him and the light. He could easily imagine that he was an inspection officer and that they walked by under orders from him. Two more women in those somber dresses with the red crosses embroidered upon them, were silhouetted for a moment against the glow and then were gone. Then a man with his arm in a sling and his face very pale walked slowly by. A wounded soldier! There must be many, very many of them!

The musical murmur ceased and he was growing weary. He closed his eyes and then he opened them again because he felt for a moment on his face a fragrant breath, fleeting and very light. He looked up into the eyes of Julie Lannes. They were blue, very blue, but with infinite wistful depths in them, and he noticed that her golden hair had faint touches of the sun in it. It was a crown of glory. He remembered that he had seen something like it in the best pictures of the old masters.

"Mademoiselle Julie!" he said.

"You have come back," she said gently. "We have been anxious about you. Philip has been to see you three times."

He noticed that she, too, wore the somber dress with the red cross, and he began to comprehend.

"A nurse," he said. "Why, you are too young for such work!"

"But I am strong, and the wounded are so many, hundreds of thousands, they say. Is it not a time for the women of France to help as much as they can?"

"I suppose so. I've heard that in our civil war the women passed over the battle fields, seeking the wounded and nursed them afterward. But you didn't come here alone, did you, Mademoiselle Julie?"

"Antoine Picard—you remember him—and his daughter Suzanne, are with me. My mother would have come too, but she is ill. She will come later."

"How long have I been here?"

"Four days."

John thought a little. Many and mighty events had happened in four days before he was wounded and many and mighty events may have occurred since.

"Would you mind telling me where we are, Mademoiselle Julie?" he asked.

"I do not know exactly myself, but we are somewhere near the river, Aisne. The German army has turned and is fortifying against us. When the wind blows this way you can hear the rumble of the guns. Ah, there it is now, Mr. Scott!"

John distinctly heard that low, sinister menace, coming from the east, and he knew what it was. Why should he not? He had listened to it for days and days. It was easy enough now to tell the thunder of the artillery from real thunder. He was quite sure that it had never ceased while he was unconscious. It had been going on so long now, as steady as the flowing of a river.

"I've been asking you a lot of questions, Mademoiselle Julie, but I want to ask you one more."

"What is it, Mr. Scott?"

"What happened to me?"

"They say that you were knocked down by a horse, and that when you were falling his knee struck your head. There was a concussion but the surgeon says that when you come out of it you will recover very fast."

"Is the man who says it a good surgeon, one upon whom a fellow can rely, one of the very best surgeons that ever worked on a hurt head?"

"Yes, Mr. Scott. But why do you ask such a question? Is it your odd American way?"

"Not at all. Mademoiselle Julie. I merely wanted to satisfy myself. He knows that I'm not likely to be insane or weak-minded or anything of the kind, because I got in the way of that horse's knee?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Scott, there is not the least danger in the world. Your mind will be as sound as your body. Don't trouble yourself."

She laughed and now John knew that it was she whom he had heard singing the chansonette in that low murmuring tone. What was that little song? Well, it did not matter about the words. The music was that of a soft breeze from the south blowing among roses. John's imaginings were growing poetical. Perhaps there were yet some lingering effects from the concussion.

"Here is the surgeon now," said Mademoiselle Julie. "He will take a look at you and he will be glad to find that what he has predicted has come true."

It was the man in the white jacket, and with that wonderful tangle of black whiskers, like a patch cut out of a scrub forest.

"Well, my young Yankee," he said, "I see that you've come around. You've raised an interesting question in my mind. Since a cavalry horse wasn't able to break it, is the American skull thicker than the skulls of other people?"

"A lot of you Europeans don't seem to think we're civilized."

"But when you fight for us we do. Isn't that so, Mademoiselle Lannes?"

"I think it is."

"War is a curious thing. While it drives people apart it also brings them together. We learn in battle, and its aftermath, that we're very much alike. And now, my young Yankee, I'll be here again in two hours to change that bandage for the last time. I'll be through with you then, and in another day you can go forward to meet the German shells."

"I prefer to run against a horse's knee," said John with spirit.

Surgeon Lucien Delorme laughed heartily.

"I'm confirmed in my opinion that you won't need me after another change of bandages," he said. "We've a couple of hundred thousand cases much worse than yours to tend, and Mademoiselle Lannes will look after you today. She has watched over you, I understand, because you're a friend of her brother, the great flying man, Philip Lannes."

"Yes," said John, "that's it, of course."

Julie herself said nothing.

Surgeon Delorme passed through the bar of brilliant light and disappeared, his place being taken by a gigantic figure with grizzled hair, and the stern face of the thoughtful peasant, the same Antoine Picard who had been left as a guardian over the little house beyond the Seine. John closed his eyes, that is nearly, and caught the glance that the big man gave to Julie. It was protecting and fatherly, and he knew that Antoine would answer for her at any time with his life. It was one remnant of feudalism to which he did not object. He opened his eyes wide and said:

"Well, my good Picard, perhaps you thought you were going to look at a dead American, but you are not. Behold me!"

He sat up and doubled up his arm to show his muscle and power. Picard smiled and offered to shake hands in the American fashion. He seemed genuinely glad that John had returned to the real world, and John ascribed it to Picard's knowledge that he was Lannes' friend.

Julie said some words to Picard, and with a little au revoir to John, went away. John watched her until she was out of sight. He realized again that young French girls were kept secluded from the world, immured almost. But the world had changed. Since a few men met around a table six or seven weeks before and sent a few dispatches a revolution had come. Old customs, old ideas and old barriers were going fast, and might be going faster. War, the leveler, was prodigiously at work.

These were tremendous things, but he had himself to think about too, and personality can often outweigh the universe. Julie was gone, taking a lot of the light with her, but Picard was still there, and while he was grizzled and stern he was a friend.

John sat up quite straight and Picard did not try to keep him from it.

"Picard," he said, "you see me, don't you?"

"I do, sir, with these two good eyes of mine, as good as those in the head of any young man, and fifty is behind me."

"That's because you're not intellectual, Picard, but we'll return to our lamb chops. I am here, I, a soldier of France, though an American—for which I am grateful—laid four days upon my back by a wound. And was that wound inflicted by a shell, shrapnel, bomb, lance, saber, bullet or any of the other noble weapons of warfare? No, sir, it was done by a horse, and not by a kick, either, he jostled me with his knee when he wasn't looking. Would you call that an honorable wound?"

"All wounds received in the service of one's country or adopted country are honorable, sir."

"You give me comfort, Picard. But spread the story that I was not hit by a horse's knee but by a piece of shell, a very large and wicked piece of shell. I want it to get into the histories that way. The greatest of Frenchmen, though he was an Italian, said that history was a fable agreed upon, and you and I want to make an agreement about myself and a shell."

"I don't understand you at all, sir."

"Well, never mind. Tell me how long Mademoiselle Julie is going to stay here. I'm a great friend of her brother, Lieutenant Philip Lannes. Oh, we're such wonderful friends! And we've been through such terrible dangers together!"

"Then, perhaps it's Lieutenant Lannes and not his sister, Mademoiselle Julie, that you wish to inquire about."

"Don't be ironical, Picard. I was merely digressing, which I admit is wrong, as you're apt to distract the attention of your hearer from the real subject. We'll return to Mademoiselle Julie. Do you think she's going to remain here long?"

"I would tell you if I could, sir, but no one knows. I think it depends upon many circumstances. The young lady is most brave, as becomes one of her blood, and the changes in France are great. All of us who may not fight can serve otherwise."

"Why is it that you're not fighting, Picard?"

The great peasant flung up his arms angrily.

"Because I am beyond the age. Because I am too old, they said. Think of it! I, Antoine Picard, could take two of these little officers and crush them to death at once in my arms! There is not in all this army a man who could walk farther than I can! There is not one who could lift the wheel of a cannon out of the mud more quickly than I can, and they would not take me! What do a few years mean?"

"Nothing in your case, Antoine, but they'll take you, later on. Never fear. Before this war is over every country in it will need all the men it can get, whether old or young."

"I fear that it is so," said the gigantic peasant, a shadow crossing his stern face, "but, sir, one thing is decided. France, the France of the Revolution, the France that belongs to its people, will not fall."

John looked at him with a new interest. Here was a peasant, but a thinking peasant, and there were millions like him in France. They were not really peasants in the old sense of the word, but workingmen with a stake in the country, and the mind and courage to defend it. It might be possible to beat the army of a nation, but not a nation in arms.

"No, Picard," said John, "France will not fall."

"And that being settled, sir," said Picard, with grim humor, "I think you'd better lie down again. You've talked a lot for a man who has been unconscious four days."

"You're right, my good Picard, as I've no doubt you usually are. Was I troublesome, much, when I was out in the dark?"

"But little, sir. I've lifted much heavier men, and that Dr. Delorme is strong himself, not afraid, either, to use the knife. Ah, sir, you should have seen how beautifully he worked right under the fire of the German guns! Psst! if need be he'd have taken a leg off you in five minutes, as neatly as if he had been in a hospital in Paris!"

John felt apprehensively for his legs. Both were there, and in good condition.

"If that man ever comes near me with the intention of cutting off one of my legs I'll shoot him, good fellow and good doctor though he may be," he said. "Help me up a little higher, will you, Picard? I want to see what kind of a place we're in."

Picard built up a little pyramid of saddles and knapsacks behind him and John drew himself up with his back against them. The rows and rows of wounded stretched as far as he could see, and there was a powerful odor of drugs. Around him was a forest, of the kind with which he had become familiar in Europe, that is, of small trees, free from underbrush. He saw some distance away soldiers walking up and down and beyond them the vague outline of an earthwork.

"What place is this, anyway, Picard?" he asked.

"It has no name, sir. It's a hospital. It was built in the forest in a day. More than five thousand wounded lie here. The army itself is further on. You were found and brought in by some young officers of that most singular company composed of Americans and English who are always quarreling among one another, but who unite and fight like demons against anybody else."

"A dollar to a cent it was Wharton and Carstairs who brought me here," said John, smiling to himself.

"What does Monsieur say?"

"Merely commenting on some absent friends of mine. But this isn't a bad place, Picard."

The shed was of immense length and breadth and just beyond it were some small buildings, evidently of hasty construction. John inferred that they were for the nurses and doctors, and he wondered which one sheltered Julie Lannes. The forest seemed to be largely of young pines, and the breeze that blew through it was fresh and wholesome. As he breathed it young Scott felt that he was inhaling new life and strength. But the wind also brought upon its edge that far faint murmur which he knew was the throbbing of the great guns, miles and miles away.

"Perhaps, Monsieur had better lie down again now and sleep awhile," said Picard insinuatingly.

"Sleep! I need sleep! Why, Picard, by your own account I've just awakened from a sleep four days and four nights long."

"But, sir, that was not sleep. It was the stupor of unconsciousness. Now your sleep will be easy and natural."

"Very well," said John, who had really begun to feel a little weary, "I'll go to sleep, since, in a way, you order it, but if Mademoiselle Julie Lannes should happen to pass my cot again, will you kindly wake me up?"

"If possible, sir," said Picard, the faintest smile passing over his iron features, and forced to be content with that reply, John soon slept again. Julie passed by him twice, but Picard did not awaken him, nor try. The first time she was alone. Trained and educated like most young French girls, she had seen little of the world until she was projected into the very heart of it by an immense and appalling war. But its effect upon her had been like that upon John. Old manners and customs crumbled away, an era vanished, and a new one with new ideas came to take its place. She shuddered often at what she had seen in this great hospital in the woods, but she was glad that she had come. French courage was as strong in the hearts of women as in the hearts of men, and the brusque but good Dr. Delorme had said that she learned fast. She had more courage, yes, and more skill, than many nurses older and stronger than she, and there was the stalwart Suzanne, who worked with her.

She was alone the first time and she stopped by John's cot, where he slept so peacefully. He was undeniably handsome, this young American who had come to their house in Paris with Philip. And her brother, that wonderful man of the air, who was almost a demi-god to her, had spoken so well of him, had praised so much his skill, his courage, and his honesty. And he had received his wound fighting so gallantly for France, her country. Her beautiful color deepened a little as she walked away.

John awoke again in the afternoon, and the first sound he heard was that same far rumble of the guns, now apparently a part of nature, but he did not linger in any twilight land between dark and light. All the mists of sleep cleared away at once and he sat up, healthy, strong and hungry. Demanding food from an orderly he received it, and when he had eaten it he asked for Surgeon Delorme.

The surgeon did not come for a half hour and then he demanded brusquely what John wanted.

"None of your drugs," replied happy young Scott, "but my uniform and my arms. I don't know your procedure here, but I want you to certify to the whole world that I'm entirely well and ready to return to the ranks."

Surgeon Delorme critically examined the bandage which he had changed that morning, and then felt of John's head at various points.

"A fine strong skull," he said, smiling, "and quite undamaged. When this war is over I shall go to America and make an exhaustive study of the Yankee skull. Has bone, through the influence of climate or of more plentiful food, acquired a more tenacious quality there than it has here? It is a most interesting and complicated question."

"But it's solution will have to be deferred, my good Monsieur Delorme, and so you'd better quit thumping my head so hard. Give me that certificate, because if you don't I'll get up and go without it. Don't you hear those guns out there, doctor? Why, they're calling to me all the time. They tell me, strong and well, again, to come at once and join my comrades of the Strangers, who are fighting the enemy."

"You shall go in the morning," said Surgeon Delorme, putting his broad hand upon young Scott's head. "The effects of the concussion will have vanished then."

"But I want to get up now and put on my uniform; can't I?"

"I know no reason why you shouldn't. There's a huge fellow named Picard around here who has been watching over you, and who has your uniform. I'll call him."

When John was dressed he walked with Picard into the edge of the forest. His first steps were wavering, and his head swam a little, but in a few minutes the dizziness disappeared and his walk became steady and elastic. He was his old self again, strong in every fiber. He would certainly be with the Strangers the next morning.

Many more of the wounded, thousands of them, were lying or sitting on the short grass in the forest. They were the less seriously hurt, and they were cheerful. Some of them sang.

"They'll be going back to the army fast," said Picard. "Unless they're torn by shrapnel nearly all the wounded get well again and quickly. The bullet with the great power is merciful. It goes through so fast that it does not tear either flesh or bone. If you're healthy, if your blood is good, psst! you're well again in a week."

"Do you know if Lieutenant Lannes is expected here?" asked John.

"I heard from Mademoiselle Julie that he would come at set of sun. He has been on another perilous errand. Ah, his is a strange and terrible life, sir. Up there in the sky, a half mile, maybe a mile, above the earth. All the dangers of the earth and those, too, of the air to fight! Nothing above you and nothing below you. It's a new world in which Monsieur Philip Lannes moves, but I would not go in it with him, not for all the treasures of the Louvre!"

He looked up at the calm and benevolent blue sky and shuddered.

John laughed.

"Some of us feel that way," he said. "Many men as brave as any that ever lived can't bear to look down from a height. But sunset is approaching, my gallant Picard, and Lannes should soon be here."

The rays of the sun fell in showers of red gold where they stood, but a narrow band of gray under the eastern horizon showed that twilight was not far away. The two stood side by side staring up at the heavens, where they felt with absolute certainty the black dot would appear at the appointed time. It was a singular tribute to the courage and character of Lannes that all who knew him had implicit faith in his promises, not alone in his honesty of purpose, but in his ability to carry it out in the face of difficulty and danger. The band of gray in the east broadened, but they still watched with the utmost faith.

"I see something to the eastward," said John, "or is it merely a shadow in the sky?"

"I don't think it's a shadow. It must be one of those terrible machines, and perhaps it's that of our brave Monsieur Philip."

"You're right, Picard, it's no shadow, nor is it a bit of black cloud. It's an aeroplane, flying very fast. The skies over Europe hold many aeroplanes these days, but I know all the tricks of the Arrow, all its pretty little ways, its manner of curving, looping and dropping, and I should say that the Arrow, Philip Lannes aboard, is coming."

"I pray, sir, that you are right. I always hold my breath until he is on the ground again."

"Then you'll have to make a record in holding breath, my brave Picard. He is still far, very far, from us, and it will be a good ten minutes before he arrives."

But John knew beyond a doubt, after a little more watching, that it was really the Arrow, and with eager eyes he watched the gallant little machine as it descended in many a graceful loop and spiral to the earth. They hurried forward to meet it, and Lannes, bright-eyed and trim, sprang out, greeting John with a welcome cry.

"Up again," he exclaimed, "and, as I see with these two eyes of mine, as well as ever! And you too, my brave Picard, here to meet me!"

He hastened away with a report, but came back to them in a few minutes.

"Now," he said, "We'll go and see my sister."

John was not at all unwilling.

They found her in one of the new houses of pine boards, and the faithful and stalwart Suzanne was with her. It was the plainest of plain places, inhabited by at least twenty other Red Cross nurses, and John stood on one side until the first greeting of brother and sister was over. Then Lannes, by a word and a gesture, included him in what was practically a family group, although he was conscious that the stalwart Suzanne was watching him with a wary eye.

"Julie and Suzanne," said Lannes, "are going tomorrow with other nurses to the little town of Ménouville, where also many wounded lie. They are less well supplied with doctors and nurses than we are here. Dr. Delorme goes also with a small detachment as escort. I have asked that you, Monsieur Jean the Scott, be sent with them. Our brave Picard goes too. Ménouville is about eight miles from here, and it's not much out of the way to the front. So you will not be kept long from your Strangers, John."

"I go willingly," said John, "and I'm glad, Philip, that you've seen fit to consider me worth while as a part of the escort."

He spoke quietly, but his glance wandered to Julie Lannes. It may have been a chance, but hers turned toward him at the same time, and the eyes, the blue and the gray, met. Again the girl's brilliant color deepened a little, and she looked quickly away. Only the watchful and grim Suzanne saw.

"Do you have to go away at once, Philip?" asked Julie.

"In one hour, my sister. There is not much rest for the Arrow and me these days, but they are such days as happen perhaps only once in a thousand years, and one must do his best to be worthy. I'm not preaching, little sister, don't think that, but I must answer to every call."

The twilight had spread from east to west. The heavy shadows in the east promised a dark night, but out of the shadows, as always, came that sullen mutter of the ruthless guns. Julie shivered a little, and glanced at the dim sky.

"Must you go up there in the cold dark?" she said. "It's like leaving the world. It's dangerous enough in the day, but you have a bright sky then. In the night it's terrible!"

"Don't you fear for me, little sister," said Lannes. "Why, I like the night for some reasons. You can slip by your enemies in the dark, and if you're flying low the cannon don't have half the chance at you. Besides, I've the air over these regions all mapped and graded now. I know all the roads and paths, the meeting places of the clouds, points suitable for ambush, aerial fields, meadows and forests. Oh, it's home up there! Don't you worry, and do you write, too, to Madame, my mother, in Paris, that I'm perfectly safe."

Lannes kissed her and went away abruptly. John was sure that an attempt to hide emotion caused his brusque departure.

"Believe everything he tells you, Mademoiselle Julie," he said. "I've come to the conclusion that nothing can ever trap your brother. Besides courage and skill he has luck. The stars always shine for him."

"They're not shining tonight," said Picard, looking up at the dusky sky.

"But I believe, Mr. Scott, that you are right," said Julie.

"He'll certainly come to us at Ménouville tomorrow night," said John, speaking in English—all the conversation hitherto had been in French, "and I think we'll have a pleasant ride through the forest in the morning, Miss Lannes. You'll let me call you Miss Lannes, once or twice, in my language, won't you? I like to hear the sound of it."

"I've no objection, Mr. Scott," she replied also in English. She did not blush, but looked directly at him with bright eyes. John was conscious of something cool and strong. She was very young, she was French, and she had lived a sheltered life, but he realized once more that human beings are the same everywhere and that war, the leveler, had broken down all barriers.

"I've not heard who is to be our commander, Miss Lannes," he continued in English, "but I'll be here early in the morning. May I wish you happy dreams and a pleasant awakening, as they say at home?"

"But you have two homes now, France and America."

"That's so, and I'm beginning to love one as much as the other. Any way, to the re-seeing, Miss Lannes, which I believe is equivalent to au revoir."

He made a very fine bow, one that would have done credit to a trained old courtier, and withdrew. The fierce and watchful eyes of Suzanne followed him.

John was up at dawn, as strong and well as he had ever been in his life. As he was putting on his uniform an orderly arrived with a note from Lieutenant Hector Legaré, telling him to report at once for duty with a party that was going to Ménouville.

The start was made quickly. John found that the women with surgical supplies were traveling in carts. The soldiers, about twenty in number, walked. John and the doctor walked with them. All the automobiles were in use carrying troops to the front, but the carts were strong and comfortable and John did not mind. It ought to be a pleasant trip.

THE MIDDLE AGES

The little party moved away without attracting notice. In a time of such prodigious movement the going or coming of a few individuals was a matter of no concern. The hood that Julie Lannes had drawn over her hair and face, and her plain brown dress might have been those of a nun. She too passed before unseeing eyes.

Lieutenant Legaré was a neutral person, arousing no interest in John who walked by the side of the gigantic Picard, the stalwart Suzanne being in one of the carts beside Julie. The faint throbbing of the guns, now a distinct part of nature, came to them from a line many miles away, but John took no notice of it. He had returned to the world among pleasant people, and this was one of the finest mornings in early autumn that he had ever seen.

The country was much more heavily forested than usual. At points, the woods turned into what John would almost have called a real forest. Then they could not see very far ahead or to either side, but the road was good and the carts moved forward, though not at a pace too great for the walkers.

Picard carried a rifle over his shoulders, and John had secured an automatic. All the soldiers were well armed. John felt a singular lightness of heart, and, despite the forbidding glare of Suzanne, who was in the last cart, he spoke to Julie.

"It's too fine a morning for battle," he said in English. "Let's pretend that we're a company of troubadours, minnesingers, jongleurs, acrobats and what not, going from one great castle to another."

"I suppose Antoine there is the chief acrobat?"

"He might do a flip-flap, but if he did the earth would shake."

"Then you are the chief troubadour. Where is your harp or viol, Sir Knight of the Tuneful Road?"

"I'm merely imagining character, not action. I haven't a harp or a viol, and if I had them I couldn't play on either."

"Do you think it right to talk In English to the strange young American, Mademoiselle? Would Madame your mother approve?" said Suzanne in a fierce whisper.

"It is sometimes necessary in war, Suzanne, to talk where one would not do so in peace," replied Julie gravely, and then she said to John again in English:

"We cannot carry out the pretense, Mr. Scott. The tuneful or merry folk of the Middle Ages did not travel with arms. They had no enemies, and they were welcome everywhere. Nor did they travel as we do to the accompaniment of war. The sound of the guns grows louder."

"So it does," said John, bending an ear—he had forgotten that a battle was raging somewhere, "but we're behind the French lines and it cannot touch us."

"It was a wonderful victory. Our soldiers are the bravest in the world are they not, Mr. Scott?"

John smiled. They were still talking English. He liked to hear her piquant pronunciation of it, and he surmised too that the bravest of hearts beat in the bosom of this young girl whom war had suddenly made a woman. How could the sister of such a man as Lannes be otherwise than brave? The sober brown dress, and the hood equally sober, failed to hide her youthful beauty. The strands of hair escaping from the hood showed pure gold in the sunshine, and in the same sunshine the blue of her eyes seemed deeper than ever.

John was often impressed by the weakness of generalities, and one of them was the fact that so many of the French were so fair, and so many of the English so dark. He did not remember the origin of the Lannes family, but he was sure that through her mother's line, at least, she must be largely of Norman blood.

"What are you thinking of so gravely, Mr. Scott?" she asked, still in English, to the deep dissatisfaction of Suzanne, who never relaxed her grim glare.

"I don't know. Perhaps it was the contrast of our peaceful journey to what is going on twelve or fifteen miles away."

"It is beautiful here!" she said.

Truly it was. The road, smooth and white, ran along the slopes of hills, crested with open forest, yet fresh and green. Below them were fields of chequered brown and green. Four or five clear brooks flowed down the slopes, and the sheen of a little river showed in the distance. Three small villages were in sight, and, clean white smoke rising from their chimneys, blended harmoniously into the blue of the skies. It reminded John of pictures by the great French landscape painters. It was all so beautiful and peaceful, nor was the impression marred by the distant mutter of the guns which he had forgotten again.

Julie and Suzanne, her menacing shadow, dismounted from the wagon presently and walked with John and Picard. Lieutenant Legaré was stirred enough from his customary phlegm to offer some gallant words, but war, the great leveler, had not quite leveled all barriers, so far as he was concerned, and, after her polite reply, he returned to his martial duties. John had become the friend of the Lannes family through his association with Philip in dangerous service, and his position was recognized.

The road ascended and the forest became deeper. No houses were now in sight. As the morning advanced it had grown warmer under a brilliant sun, but it was pleasant here in the shade. Julie still walked, showing no sign of a wish for the cart again. John noticed that she was very strong, or at least very enduring. Suddenly he felt a great obligation to take care of her for the sake of Lannes. The sister of his comrade-in-arms was a precious trust in his hands, and he must not fail.

The wind shifted and blew toward the east, no longer bringing the sound of guns. Instead they heard a bird now and then, chattering or singing in a tree. The illusion of the Middle Ages returned to John. They were a peaceful troupe, going upon a peaceful errand.

"Don't tell me there isn't a castle at Ménouville," he said. "I know there is, although I've never been there, and I never heard of the place before. When we arrive the drawbridge will be down and the portcullis up. All the men-at-arms will have burnished their armor brightly and will wait respectfully in parallel rows to welcome us as we pass between. His Grace, the Duke of Light Heart, in a suit of red velvet will be standing on the steps, and Her Graciousness, the Duchess, in a red brocade dress, with her hair powdered and very high on her head, will be by his side to greet our merry troupe. Behind them will be all the ducal children, and the knights and squires and pages, and ladies. I think they will all be very glad to see us, because in these Middle Ages of ours, life, even in a great ducal castle, is somewhat lonely. Visitors are too rare, and there is not the variety of interest that even the poor will have in a later time."

"You make believe well, Mr. Scott," she said.

"There is inspiration," he said, glancing at her. "We are here in the deeps of an ancient wood, and perhaps the stories and legends of these old lands move the Americans more than they do the people who live here. We're the children of Europe and when we look back to the land of our fathers we often see it through a kind of glorified mist."

"The wind is shifting again," she said. "I hear the cannon once more."

"So do I, and I hear something else too! Was that the sound of hoofs?"

John turned in sudden alarm to Legaré, who heard also and stiffened at once to attention. They were not alone on the road. The rapid beat of hoofs came, and around a corner galloped a mass of Uhlans, helmets and lances glittering. Picard with a shout of warning fired his rifle into the thick of them. Legaré snatched out his revolver and fired also.

But they had no chance. The little detachment was ridden down in an instant. Legaré and half of the men died gallantly. The rest were taken. Picard had been brought to his knees by a tremendous blow from the butt of a lance, and John, who had instinctively sprung before Julie, was overpowered. Suzanne, who endeavored to reach a weapon, fought like a tigress, but two Uhlans finally subdued her.

It was so swift and sudden that it scarcely seemed real to John, but there were the dead bodies lying ghastly in the road, and there stood Julie, as pale as death, but not trembling. The leader of the Uhlans pushed his helmet back a little from his forehead, and looked down at John, who had been disarmed but who stood erect and defiant.

"It is odd, Mr. Scott," said Captain von Boehlen, "how often the fortunes of this war have caused us to meet."

"It is, and sometimes fortune favors one, sometimes the other. You're in favor now."

Von Boehlen looked steadily at his prisoner. John thought that the strength and heaviness of the jaw were even more pronounced than when he had first seen the Prussian in Dresden. The face was tanned deeply, and face and figure alike seemed the embodiment of strength. One might dislike him, but one could not despise him. John even found it in his heart to respect him, as he returned the steady gaze of the blue eyes with a look equally as firm.

"I hope," said John, "that you will send back Mademoiselle Lannes and the nurses with her to her people. I take it that you're not making war upon women."

Von Boehlen gave Julie a quick glance of curiosity and admiration. But the eyes flashed for only a moment and then were expressionless.

"I know of one Lannes," he said, "Philip Lannes, the aviator, a name that fame has brought to us Germans."

"I am his sister," said Julie.

"I can wish, Mademoiselle Lannes," said von Boehlen, politely in French, "that we had captured your brother instead of his sister."

"But as I said, you will send them back to their own people? You don't make war upon women?" repeated John.

"No, we do not make war upon women. We are making war upon Frenchmen, and I do not hesitate to say in the presence of Mademoiselle Lannes that this war is made upon very brave Frenchmen. Yet we cannot send the ladies back. The presence of our cavalry here within the French lines must not be known to our enemies. Moreover, I obey the orders of another, and I am compelled to hold them as prisoners—for a while at least."

Von Boehlen's tone was not lacking in the least in courtesy. It was more than respectful when he spoke directly to Julie Lannes, and John's feeling of repugnance to him underwent a further abatement—he was a creation of his conditions, and he believed in his teachings.

"You will at least keep us all as prisoners together?" said John.

"I know of no reason to the contrary," replied von Boehlen briefly. Then he acted with the decision that characterized all the German officers whom John had seen. The women and the prisoners were put in the carts. Dismounted Uhlans took the place of the drivers and the little procession with an escort of about fifty cavalry turned from the road into the woods, von Boehlen and the rest, about five hundred in number, rode on down the road.

John was in the last cart with Julie, Suzanne and Picard, and his soul was full of bitter chagrin. He had just been taking mental resolutions to protect, no matter what came, Philip Lannes' sister, and, within a half hour, both she and he were prisoners. But when he saw the face of Antoine Picard he knew that one, at least, in the cart was suffering as much as he. The gigantic peasant was the only one whose arms were bound, and perhaps it was as well. His face expressed the most ferocious anger and hate, and now and then he pulled hard upon his bonds. John could see that they were cutting into the flesh. He remembered also that Picard was not in uniform. He was in German eyes only a franc tireur, subject to instant execution, and he wondered why von Boehlen had delayed.

"Save your strength, Antoine," he whispered soothingly. "We'll need it later. I've been a prisoner before and I escaped. What's been done once can be done again. In such a huge and confused war as this there's always a good chance."

"Ah, you're right, Monsieur," said Antoine, and he ceased to struggle.

Julie had heard the whisper, and she looked at John confidently. She was the youngest of all the women in the carts, but she was the coolest.

"They cannot do anything with us but hold us a few days," she said.

John was silent, turning away his somber face. He did not like this carrying away of the women as captives, and to him the women were embodied in Julie. They were following a little path through the woods, the German drivers and German guards seeming to know well the way. John, calculating the course by the sun, was sure that they were now going directly toward the German army and that they would pass unobserved beyond the French outposts. The path was leading into a narrow gorge and the banks and trees would hide them from all observation. He was confirmed in his opinion by the action of their guards. The leader rode beside the carts and said in very good French that any one making the least outcry would be shot instantly. No exception would be made in the case of a woman.

John knew that the threat would be kept. Julie Lannes paled a little, and the faithful Suzanne by her side was darkly menacing, but they showed no other emotion.

"Don't risk anything," said John in the lowest of whispers. "It would be useless."

Julie nodded. The carts moved on down the gorge, their wheels and the hoofs of the horses making but little noise on the soft turf. The crash of the guns was now distinctly louder and far ahead they saw wisps of smoke floating above the trees. John was sure that the German batteries were there, but he was equally sure that even had he glasses he could not have seen them. They would certainly be masked in some adroit fashion.

The roaring also grew on their right and left. That must be the French cannon, and soon they would be beyond the French lines. His bitterness increased. Nothing could be more galling than to be carried in this manner through one's own forces and into the camp of the enemy. And there was Julie, sitting quiet and pale, apparently without fear.

He reckoned that they rode at least three miles in the gorge. Then they came into a shallow stream about twenty feet wide that would have been called a creek at home. Its banks were fairly high, lined on one side by a hedge and on the other by willows. Instead of following the path any further the Germans turned into the bed of the stream and drove down it two or three miles. The roar of the artillery from both armies was now very great, and the earth shook. Once John caught the shadow of a huge shell passing high over their heads.

All the prisoners knew that they were well beyond hope of rescue for the present. The French line was far behind them and they were within the German zone. It was better to be resigned, until they saw cause for hope.

When they came to a low point in the eastern bank of the stream the carts turned out, reached a narrow road between lines of poplars and continued their journey eastward. In the fields on either side John saw detachments of German infantry, skirmishers probably, as they had not yet reached the line of cannon.

"Officer," said John to the German leader, "couldn't you unbind the arms of my friend in the cart here? Ropes around one's wrists for a long time are painful, and since we're within your lines he has no chance of escape now."

The officer looked at Picard and shrugged his shoulders.

"Giants are strong," he said.

"But a little bullet can lay low the greatest of them."

"That is so."

He leaned from his horse, inserted the point of his sword between Picard's wrists and deftly cut the rope without breaking the skin. Picard clenched and unclenched his hands and drew several mighty breaths of relief. But he was a peasant of fine manners and he did not forget them. Turning to the officer, he said:

"I did not think I'd ever thank a German for anything, but I owe you gratitude. It's unnatural and painful to remain trussed up like a fowl going to market."

The officer gave Picard a glance of pity and rode to the head of the column, which turned off at a sharp angle toward the north. The great roar and crash now came from the south and John inferred that they would soon pass beyond the zone of fire. But for a long time the thunder of the battle was undiminished.

"Do you know this country at all?" John asked Picard.

The giant shook his head.

"I was never here before, sir," he said, "and I never thought I should come into any part of France in this fashion. Ah, Mademoiselle Julie, how can I ever tell the tale of this to your mother?"

"No harm will come to me, Antoine," said Julie. "I shall be back in Paris before long. Suzanne and you are with me—and Mr. Scott."

Suzanne again frowned darkly, but John gave Julie a grateful glance. Wisdom, however, told him to say nothing. The officer in command came back to the cart and said, pointing ahead:

"Behold your destination! The large house on the hill. It is the headquarters of a person of importance, and you will find quarters there also. I trust that the ladies will hold no ill will against me. I've done only what my orders have compelled me to do."

"We do not, sir," said Julie.

The officer bowed low and rode back to the head of the column. He was a gallant man and John liked him. But his attention was directed now to the house, an old French château standing among oaks. The German flag flew over it and sentinels rode back and forth on the lawn. John remembered the officer's words that a "person of importance" was making his headquarters there. It must be one of the five German army commanders, at least.