The Project Gutenberg eBook of Don Hale Over There, by W. Sheppard

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Don Hale Over There

Author: W. Sheppard

Release Date: September 24, 2022 [eBook #69037]

Language: English

Produced by: David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON HALE OVER THERE ***

# DON HALE
OVER THERE

By W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

Author of

"DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONE"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB SERIES," ETC.

Illustrated by H. A. BODINE

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
1918

COPYRIGHT
1918 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

## Introduction

"Don Hale in the War Zone" recounts the many adventures of Don on a dangerous trip across the ocean, as well as in war-torn France, while seeking his father, an aviator in the service of the Allies. His chum, George Glenn, too, was an active participant in numerous exciting events.

The present volume, the second of the series, tells about the thrilling experiences that fell to the lot of Don, who, in common with numbers of other young Americans, volunteered his services as an ambulance driver in that great organization, the Red Cross, which has done so much for the cause of humanity during the world war.

Don views the operations at close range, and, naturally, amid such perilous surroundings, often finds himself in extremely serious situations.

His life in the war zone, however, is not all danger, and besides his work with the Red Cross he and some of his friends have an interesting experience in connection with a mystery which hovers over the ancient Château de Morancourt.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

## Contents

I. | The New Arrival
II. | A Mystery
III. | On Duty
IV. | Underground
V. | Under Fire
VI. | All's Well that Ends Well
VII. | The Château
VIII. | A Man-Hunt
IX. | The Light in the Window
X. | The Big Gun
XI. | The Observation Post
XII. | The Attack
XIII. | The Storm
XIV. | The Chemin de Mort
XV. | A Block on the Road
XVI. | A Footstep on the Stair
XVII. | Barrage Fire
XVIII. | "Deserter!"
XIX. | The Red Cross
XX. | In the Tower
XXI. | A Discovery
XXII. | The Treasure
XXIII. | The Count

## Illustrations

"One Can't Expect too Much"
"Fire!" Commanded the Corporal
"Take a Look at It"
A Hearty Chorus Rang Through the Room
A Red Cross Car Was Coming

## Don Hale Over There

## CHAPTER I

### THE NEW ARRIVAL

"Yes, sir, it's been rather quiet along this sector for a week or two past, Chase, but believe an old veteran in the ambulance service when he says that it isn't going to remain so very long. An attack by one side or the other is bound to happen; and then—whizz!—bang! You'll hear more shells popping than you ever could have dreamed existed in the world. This is no children's party—eh, fellows?"

A volley of assents came from nine hearty voices.

The "old veteran," who had spoken with a great deal of earnestness, fixed his gaze quite searchingly, even sternly, upon Chase, a big, husky chap sitting close by, who had made no answer.

"Say, mon ami, what made you join the Red Cross, anyway?" he asked.

Chase, disregarding his question, rose to his feet, stretched himself and yawned. He wore the air of one who is entirely out of harmony with his surroundings. Whereas all the rest, in spite of the hazardous nature of their calling, appeared to be full of life and spirits, he looked sullen and discontented.

"I declare, these nights are about the limit!" he exclaimed, in a growling tone—"nothing to do but loaf around and——"

"One kicker in a crowd is one too many," remarked the "old veteran," or, rather, Dunstan Farrington, with a laugh which softened the bluntness of his observation.

"Too bad he didn't remain in the states," added Hugh Wendell.

The observations of the two had only the effect of causing Chase to shrug his shoulders and lapse into a silence which no one seemed inclined to disturb.

On the table in the middle of a large, bare room occupied by the boys stood an oil lamp which cast a yellowish glimmer over the surroundings and threw upon the walls and floor huge, grotesquely-shaped shadows. In the far corners the feeble light could not cope successfully with the darkness, and there somber gloom and mystery lurked.

To a casual observer the gathering might have appeared to be a social affair—a mere coming together of young chaps who had no very serious object in view; in reality, however, it was something far different—they belonged to a unit of Red Cross ambulance drivers, stationed for the time being in an abandoned hotel at a little shell-torn village not far from the now famous city of Verdun. The eleven were within a zone of death and destruction—a zone where peril was never absent for a single hour.

From the roadway outside came a ceaseless rumble. Motor lorries, huge supply trucks, ammunition wagons, in fact practically every kind of vehicle belonging to the transportation service of an army in the field was making its way under cover of darkness toward the front. And in the opposite direction a continuous line of "empties" flowed steadily past.

The constant growling and grumbling of the French batteries, from their masked positions in the hills to the east and northeast, were growing louder. The German artillery, too, located to the north and northwest, kept booming away.

After a while Dunstan Farrington brought out a sketch book, and with swift, sure strokes began to record some impressions he had received during the day. Dunstan was not a collegian, but a former student of the Ecole des Beaux Arts at Paris. During the early part of the great war, like numerous other young men, he had felt the call to action and had volunteered under the Red Cross.

More than once while under fire the boyish-looking young chap had performed some valiant deed in conveying the wounded soldiers from the battle-field, and had incidentally narrowly escaped death or serious injury. Dunstan, with several other equally brave Americans, also ambulance drivers, had received the Croix de Guerre, or War Cross, which the Médicin Divisionnaire had himself pinned to their breasts.

During the last few years the art student had roughed it as few young men of his culture and education are called upon to do. But no amount of hard knocks could have taken away from Dunstan a certain air of refinement and a suavity of speech and manner which stamped him as an aristocrat. It was not, however, that form of aristocracy which sometimes instinctively arouses a feeling of antagonism or dislike.

The ambulance unit was installed in the abandoned Hotel de la Palette, a one-time favorite rendezvous for artists, situated several kilometers behind the lines.

During various bombardments of the village so much damage had been caused that it was now scarcely more than a mass of débris—an inhospitable waste, with but few of its inhabitants remaining, and the hotel had also suffered considerably. The ambulanciers, however, set to work, and by a judicious use of materials succeeded in making it fairly water-tight and comfortable. Formerly they had slept on straw spread around the sides of a big barn; now real beds and real rooms were reminders of the comforts which each had left behind him.

The appearance of the Hotel de la Palette was quite suggestive of some old print, such as might be found hanging in the window of a second-hand book shop. It seemed to be something wholly apart from this modern era; an air of a century past hovered over its discolored walls and the dingy cobbled courtyard which they enclosed. Very tranquil and peaceful indeed it looked—just the sort of a place where one might expect to see a farmer's cart or a hay wagon drawn up before the door and peasants occasionally wandering in and out.

A wide, arching porte-cochère, battered and grimy, led into the courtyard, where some of the Red Cross cars were parked. And so the neighing of horses and the stamping of their iron-shod hoofs, as well as the shouts of hostlers, had long since ceased to be, and now the enclosure resounded and echoed to the blasts of the motorist's horn or to the fresh, clear voices of youthful Americans.

The cars which the courtyard could not accommodate stood in inconspicuous positions in side lanes or behind the houses. The section was composed of thirty men and twenty-two ambulances. Lieutenant Fourneaux, a French officer, had entire charge, but the actual commanders were two college men from the United States—Hugh Wendell, Chef, and Gideon Watts, Sous Chef. French army cooks supplied the meals, and the section also included several French mechanics, though of course all the drivers were fully competent to overhaul and repair their cars.

From four to ten men and a number of ambulances were always on duty near the dressing stations, a few thousand yards from the front-line trenches—a dangerous post indeed, where the men were very often obliged to make a precipitous rush for their dugouts in order to escape the rain of devastating shells.

Yes, there was plenty of action, plenty of thrill and excitement in the life.

Chase, who had arrived but a short time before, during a lull in the fighting on that part of the western front, had as yet seen no dangerous service. The young chap was not very popular—persons of a sullen or taciturn disposition seldom are—and though he must have realized this he made no effort to turn the tide in his favor.

Bodkins, the musical member of the unit, had just brought forth his banjo, ready to indulge in his favorite pastime, when a noise at the door stopped him.

"Hello! Somebody's coming in," he exclaimed, looking up.

At that moment the door opened, and a dim, very vague form was seen standing at the threshold about to enter.

"Hello, fellows! Bon soir, Messieurs!" cried a cheery, youthful voice.

Whereupon every one in the room except Chase gave utterance to a hearty shout of welcome, Dunstan Farrington's voice rising high above the others.

"Hello yourself, Don Hale!" he shouted. "Back from your ten days' furlough, eh? You're a sight for sore eyes! Well, well, we're mighty glad to see you!"

## CHAPTER II

### A MYSTERY

"Say, what kind of a time did you have in Paris, boy?" exclaimed Gideon Watts. "Give us the latest news from civilization. What's in that bundle? Newspapers, by Jove! Hooray!"

It seemed as if every one in the room were intent upon shaking the newcomer's hand at the same identical moment.

"Had a perfectly dandy trip," returned the smiling Don Hale. "Maybe I didn't enjoy every minute of it, too. What do you think?—I actually saw an air raid on Paris. But the anti-aircraft guns soon sent the Kaiser's bomb-droppers flying to the cover of the nearest clouds. Hello!—a new member?"

"Ah, Monsieur, nous avons oublié quelquechose. Pardon our lack of politeness," laughed Bodkins—"also, I might say, my use of French. Honestly, fellows, it's like second nature to me now to let it roll off the tip of my tongue, and——"

"I've seen some Frenchmen almost roll over with mirth when they heard it," broke in Watts, cruelly.

"Jealousy!—there's another mean fling thee has to thy credit," sighed Bodkins. "Really, somebody ought to take a correspondence school course in manners. But here's what I intended to say: Mr. Chase Manning and Mr. Don Hale—let me introduce you to each other."

The newest member of the section and the youngest driver thereupon shook hands.

Then, after each had spoken the pleasant words appropriate to such an occasion, Chase drawled, slowly:

"'Pon my word, Mr. Hale, I never expected to see a youngster like you holding down such a responsible position! Why in the world did you come to France?"

Don gave a merry, infectious laugh, though he flushed a trifle at the reference to his boyish appearance; for he, in common with many lads of his age, liked to be considered as approaching man's estate.

"I'll tell you, Mr. Manning," he said.

"Call me Chase, if you please."

"Very well, sir, I will."

Don drew up a stool, stayed a hurricane of questions which the ambulanciers shot toward him from every quarter of the room with a cheery, "All right, fellows—just a minute," and, desirous of satisfying the curiosity of the taciturn young man, began his explanations.

In terse sentences he related how he and his chum, George Glenn, had left Chicago with the intention of joining Mr. Hale, who belonged to the aviation corps, in Paris. On reaching New York, however, they found that a letter and remittance which the two expected had not arrived. Don took passage on a munition ship and had a thrilling adventure at sea. Afterward he met George Glenn and they journeyed to the war zone together. A series of surprising incidents followed, and did not end until they encountered Mr. Hale in a little French village.

"By George! 'Pon my word!—quite a story," commented Chase at its conclusion. His face actually lighted up with a smile. "And then, not satisfied with all that excitement, you had to join the Red Cross in order to get a bit more, eh?"

"No; it wasn't for the sake of the thrills, though they come pretty often in the day's work," laughed Don.

"What's become of your friend?"

"George? Why, he's preparing to enter the aviation service."

"Then he's sure to rise above you very quickly," drawled Chase.

"Ha, ha!" giggled Bodkins. "Did you hear that, boys? Chase Manning's first joke. Remember the day and date."

Don joined in the general laugh which followed, then remarked:

"And now, Chase——"

"Nothing doing, son. My history wouldn't interest even a cat," broke in Chase, quickly. His voice and manner underwent a sudden change; once again he appeared the same surly, discontented chap as before. "You may have this much information, however: I'm from that 'somewhere in America' known as Maine."

By this time many of the ambulanciers were eagerly examining the Paris newspapers—the first they had seen for some time—while others fairly peppered the aviator's son with questions concerning his trip. A journey to the French capital, after the hard grind of work and the dangers to which they were daily exposed, really marked an epoch in the lives of the drivers, and the next best thing to enjoying the pleasure themselves, according to the majority, was to listen to an account of the experiences of some one who had.

And, very naturally, Don Hale, bubbling over with buoyant spirits, had much to say.

While engaged in conversation they heard the sound of an explosion, startlingly loud, rising above the clatter of passing traffic and dull booming of artillery.

"Hello! There's a shell that landed almost near enough to say, 'How do you do?'" cried the chef.

Chase hastily sprang from his seat, with his mouth half open.

"Great Scott!" he blurted out, with a perceptible tremor in his voice. "I never heard one of these confounded things burst so close to the old shack before."

"I know of a certain village which the Boches didn't present with a single shell for months and months," put in Dunstan, dryly, "and just when everybody began to consider it a lovely and peaceful place—a haven of refuge in time of danger—the German batteries, early one morning, suddenly started working overtime. No, Messieurs, it probably will never be rebuilt."

"That's liable to happen here, too," remarked Bodkins, not very reassuringly. "We're only a few kilometers from the front. But what do we care, boys! Isn't there a dandy underground shelter right back of the quarters for us to drop into when things get a bit too squally! Why, it's got a roof of sand-bags and dirt about eight feet thick. Only a shell landing very close could do any harm; so let's cheer up."

A momentary silence ensued, and Dunstan Farrington thereupon began tapping in a very nonchalant fashion upon the table.

Any keen observer might have noticed that of all those present but one paid attention to his action. A curious, eager light instantly sprang into Don Hale's eyes; a smile curved his lips. For Dunstan, using the Morse code, was sending a message to Don, who, being a former wireless operator, of course understood.

Rather laboriously the art student spelled the words which form this sentence:

"Chase, our new member, is an odd sort of a chap. Some of the fellows think he has a yellow streak. We're curious to see what he'll do when under fire."

Humming softly, and with a twinkle in his eye, Don sauntered over to the table, and, in a considerably more expert manner than his fellow driver, made a series of taps upon its surface.

Dunstan had no difficulty in translating the following:

"Don't judge too soon. Give him a chance. I'll bet he'll make good."

Dunstan replied:

"A grouch of the first class, Don."

Again: "Don't judge too soon."

"What's the matter—do you chaps think you're woodpeckers?" broke in Bodkins. "Come, boys, let's entertain ourselves. How's this for improvising?"

And the musician, twanging his banjo, began to sing and play in a decidedly lusty manner.

"Pardon—I thought you wanted us to entertain ourselves," snickered "Peewee" Burns, a very fat, round-faced driver. "Fellows, Bodkins' improvisations have about the same effect on me as Boche shells falling uncomfortably close. I can't beat it too fast."

"Humph!—there's another arrow from jealousy's quiver that slipped harmlessly past," grunted Bodkins. "Why, you poor, ignorant chump, you couldn't tell the difference between music and the blare of a Klaxon."

Then, quite satisfied with this crushing retort, Bodkins began once more. Loudly, and with a most extraordinary accent, he sang some of the latest songs of the poilus,[1] and the others helped him manfully in the chorus.

Thus, for fully fifteen minutes there was so much jollification and noise in the room that the sounds from without were effectually denied an entrance.

At length John Weymouth raised his hand.

"Hold on, boys," he cried. "Enough of this kind of music is too much. What's the next number on the program?"

"Let's all take turns jumping on Bodkins' banjo," suggested "Peewee," pleasantly. "I've got a pair of extra-heavy boots."

"There's enough danger about without inviting any more," laughed Wendell. "Somebody tell a story. Now's your chance, Chase."

The latter shook his head.

"Sorry I can't oblige," he said. "But my gift of gab is less than is usually given to mortals."

"Dunstan, then?"

"He's sure to ring in something about painting or artists," declared "Peewee." "It's a most oddly odd thing what a grip art and music get on some people."

"Commonplace individuals of course can't be expected to understand it," remarked the musician, loftily. "Your bleatings, 'Peewee,' are——"

"Order, order!" interrupted the Sous Chef. "Dunstan has the platform."

"What shall it be—fact or fiction?" asked the art student.

"Give us a little true fiction," remarked Wendell, with a laugh.

Dunstan took a quick turn or two across the room, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the bare planks beneath his feet. Finally he raised his head so as to survey the crowd.

"By George, fellows, that effect of light and shade on your faces and figures is simply corking!" he cried, with enthusiasm. "Rembrandt himself——"

"I told you!" snickered "Peewee."

"The story first and Rembrandt afterward," commented Watts.

"All right, boys." Dunstan, with a sigh of resignation, seated himself on the edge of the table and began swinging his legs to and fro. "I'll relate a little bit of truth that may sound like fiction. Hello!"

Bang! Bang!

Two other concussions, though not quite so loud as the one previously heard, crashed in upon his sentence.

Chase squirmed uneasily in his seat. It required no skilled observer to detect the fact that his nerves were shaking.

"Confound it!" he muttered.

"Oh, that's nothing," Weymouth assured him. "When they hit the house next door it'll be time enough to worry."

"As I wasn't saying," resumed Dunstan, after a moment or two had passed, "my story concerns a French château—one of those typical old châteaus dating from the feudal ages, and within the massive walls of which——"

"He's getting off to a good, flowery start, all right," chirruped "Peewee."

"The nobles and landed gentry dwelt." Then, with a cheery laugh, Dunstan continued, in a more matter-of-fact way: "Just the other day a couple of poilus gave me the tale I'm now passing along to you. In this ancient château, which the Germans shelled and partly wrecked, there lived a direct descendent of one of those old-time seigneurs. The soldiers declared he resided in the great château alone, with a retinue of servants, and that he had the reputation of being an eccentric old chap with one great hobby."

"And what was that?" queried Wendell.

"The collection of paintings and objects of art."

"There it comes, boys!—the art stuff again!" exclaimed "Peewee," yawning. "Say, this is a fairy tale, eh, Dunstan?"

His words were couched in a tone of accusation.

"No, mon ami, not a bit of it," declared the art student, earnestly. "A long article concerning the Morancourt case appeared in a Paris newspaper."

"Morancourt? Why, that's the old place right near us here—up toward the front!"

"That's the very place, my son."

"Hah! The plot thickens. What is the 'case' you spoke of?"

"The Count de Morancourt had in his gallery some of the most valuable of all old masters—a Correggio, a Titian and a Botticelli, besides several examples of the Dutch school, such as Rembrandt and Franz Hals, for instance."

"Well, suppose he had—what of it?" demanded "Peewee," a trifle impatiently. "He isn't the first old gent that's been a bug on collecting pictures. Where does your story begin to become a story?"

"The French government made many efforts to acquire some of Count de Morancourt's treasures for the Louvre," answered Dunstan, "but he always refused to dispose of them."

"No story yet," growled "Peewee."

"Wait."

"That's what we're doing."

"Not long after the beginning of the war the count left the Château de Morancourt and also the land of his birth and set sail for America. Now comes the curious part of the story. With the government and the most famous art dealers of Europe on the qui vive to get hold of his old masters it would have been practically impossible for the count to sell them without the fact becoming immediately known."

"Quite true," assented Wendell.

"It has been proven, too, beyond all doubt, that no part of his collection accompanied the grand seigneur to America."

"What is all this leading to?" inquired Watts.

"Only this: that all the valuable paintings and bric-à-brac, without exception, have disappeared—vanished—gone!"

"Vanished!" echoed Don, his face lighting with interest. "A jolly nice mystery, I call it. There's where the story becomes a story, eh, 'Peewee'?"

"It sounds like one of those 'to-be-continued' yarns," grumbled "Peewee." He winked impressively at Bodkins. "Anyhow, what's the use of ado and chatter about a few old paintings? I'm on call to-night, boys—which means that I must be ready to take out my car at an instant's notice. Guess I'll hit the pillow."

He stretched himself and yawned.

"Why don't they get the old count to explain the matter?" inquired Weymouth.

"I understand he can't be found," answered Dunstan.

"Perhaps the stuff is all in Berlin."

"The Château de Morancourt was never in the hands of the Germans."

"It might have been stolen by some of that great retinue of servants you spoke about," suggested "Peewee."

"Not at all likely. They were sent away some time before the count himself left."

"Well, if official investigators can't solve the mystery I'm sure it's no use for us to puzzle our heads about it," put in Watts. "I always like a story which has some sort of an end, Dunstan. Your affair of the Château de Morancourt wouldn't be so bad but for that."

"I say, let's visit the place the very first chance we get," cried Don. "Those old castles always interested me immensely, and in this case that mystery'll add to the charm."

"Sure we will, Don."

"I reckon I'll go along, too," declared the taciturn Chase, somewhat to the surprise of the others—"that is, if we don't happen to get blown into bits beforehand."

"We'll be glad to have you," said Dunstan, cordially. The art student smiled. "Of course I don't mean blown into bits." He looked around. "Any one else?"

No enthusiastic response came to his ears, whereupon he broke into a hearty peal of laughter.

"I see my story has fallen rather flat," he chuckled. "But never mind, boys. Perhaps our visit to the Château de Morancourt may be the means of our being supplied with an interesting chapter or two on the history of that ancient structure."

"At least it will be a pleasant change," grunted Chase.

"I know how it'll all end, Dunstan," giggled "Peewee." "You'll bring back a pencil drawing, all shaded by hand and labeled with the title and the date of the date."

"All shaded by hand!—the date of the date!" scoffed Bodkins. "Take my advice, 'Peewee'—never speak unless you're spoken to; then the extent of your dreadful ignorance won't be so noticeable."

Dunstan joined in the merry laughter at the expense of the grinning "Peewee" which followed, then, seizing Don by the arm, he exclaimed:

"Come, boy, you look quite serious—upon what, may I ask, are your thoughts fixed so intently?"

"Upon the Château de Morancourt," laughed Don. "That's quite a story, Dunstan."

## CHAPTER III

### ON DUTY

Early on the following morning, while the light of the coming day was slowly spreading throughout the heavens and by degrees bringing into view the landscape which for long hours the deep shades of night had gathered to themselves, Don Hale and Dunstan Farrington clambered into ambulance number eight and took their places on the driver's seat.

"Another forty-eight hours of duty at the outpost ahead of us!" exclaimed Don.

"Yes; and I hope there won't be too much excitement!" said Dunstan. "I reckon Chase Manning would agree to that sentiment."

"There's a chap whose acquaintance I am certainly going to cultivate," laughed the aviator's son.

The boy waved his hand to a couple of mechanicians tinkering over an ambulance near by, threw in the clutch, and number eight, the center of a very strong smell of gasoline, slowly trundled over the cobbled paving, passed beneath the arching gateway and entered the street.

Even at that early hour soldiers billeted in the village were to be seen on every hand, and as the Red Cross car swung along in an easterly direction over the wide highway an occasional "Vive l'Amerique!" rose clearly above the hum of smoothly-working pistons and rumble of wheels.

Traveling at a rapid rate of speed, the ambulance soon reached a bend, and just beyond the road passed under the arch of an ancient porte, or gateway, which marked the limits of the town. Very picturesque and typical of other centuries it looked, looming up against the slowly-lightening sky.

Beyond the porte the ambulance passed a succession of hills and meadows. Everywhere the earth had been pitted, scarred and plowed up by high-explosive shells, and at frequent intervals there were huge yawning craters, meters in depth and width, some showing the earth freshly disturbed, others where it was hard and dry.

The guns still boomed away, and spurting columns of smoke rising here and there told where the shells from the German batteries were falling.

"I hope the Boche won't be tossing any of their property along the Chemin de Mort as we pass," exclaimed Dunstan.

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit if they did," declared Don.

Dunstan glanced at his young companion curiously.

"By George, Don, your nerves are like your helmet—made of steel," he said, admiringly. "Don't you ever get the quiver, the shiver and the shakes like the rest of us?"

"You bet I do," laughed Don. "Hello!—Hear that!—seemed to be right in the direction for which we're bound."

"Yes," said Dunstan, slowly—"not only seemed to be, but was."

Very shortly afterward the Red Cross car sped swiftly around a bend in the road and into one of the most dangerous stretches of the entire journey. This was the Chemin de Mort, or Road of Death, so named because of the fact that for a distance of over a kilometer it lay in full view of the German trenches and artillery and within easy range of shell-fire. Eleven ambulances belonging to the section had been almost put out of service along that kilometer of deadly danger by bursting shrapnel shells, and at certain times it required all the courage and nerve a driver possessed to stick to his car. Number eight, one of the eleven damaged cars, still showed the marks made by the leaden hail.

Probably no member of the unit ever arrived at the Chemin de Mort or raced across its sinister length without experiencing decidedly peculiar and uncomfortable sensations—sensations in which dread and awe formed a prominent part.

"Let 'er rip, Don!" cried Dunstan, anxiously.

"First speed it is," said Don.

Number eight bowled swiftly ahead, sometimes jolting and bumping over inequalities in the road, while the two on the front seat kept their eyes fixed on a bend beyond. Only a few moments were required to reach it, and when the car shot around into a safer zone both Don and Dunstan gave a little sigh of relief.

"I always find myself wondering if something tragic isn't going to happen along here one of these days," murmured Dunstan.

"It hasn't yet," said Don.

"I know; but——"

The art student paused and shrugged his shoulders.

"Hello! Here comes one of our cars!" cried Don.

His sharp eyes had just caught sight of a small object enveloped in a cloud of dust swinging into view in the distance.

On and on it raced at terrific speed; larger and larger became the vehicle and its accompanying cloud of flying particles. A shaft of the early morning sunlight, shooting across the landscape, tinted it with a rosy glow; sharp lights gleamed and flashed on the polished surfaces. Then, with a rush—a clatter—a whirl of wheels—it bore down a gentle incline immediately in front of them. Now the red cross, the emblem of mercy, on the ambulance's side could be clearly discerned, and Don and Dunstan had a confused and momentary impression of a grim-faced driver, tense and alert, bending over the steering wheel and a companion by his side. Then the road ahead was clear.

"An urgent case!" murmured Don.

"I thought some of those shells were landing near the post," said Dunstan.

Number eight now turned another bend and began ascending a hill, with woods on either side of the road. The highway at this point became rather narrow and winding, and was in the midst of a neighborhood almost as much dreaded as the Chemin de Mort. At night, with the road shrouded in deep black shadows and barely room for vehicles to pass and the likelihood that careless driving might at almost any moment cause a car to topple into a shell-hole, the combination was one calculated to test the skill of the most expert drivers.

The forest was filled with guns of many calibers. And before the war it must have been a very beautiful forest; for pines, cedars, hemlocks, oaks and horse chestnuts, ages old, were growing in great profusion. But the German batteries on the opposite hills had sent veritable hurricanes of screaming shells into its midst. The withering blasts had stripped countless trees of their foliage—so shattered and blasted others that forlorn, ugly-looking stumps alone remained.

Yet the French batteries had withstood the bombardment, and many a time the ambulanciers driving along that narrow road in the forest had been almost deafened by the terrific concussions of the guns.

And as cannon must have ammunition numerous supply posts were situated near the winding road. Cleverly hidden from the eyes of German airmen stretched row after row of shells suitable for every gun, and enormous quantities of boxes containing cartridges and hand-grenades.

As the Red Cross car climbed the hills and descended into the valleys, with the sun's rays ever strengthening and sending slender shafts of pearly light between the trees and spotting their boughs and branches, the two Americans caught occasional glimpses of figures in the depth of the forest—artillerymen, ready for the day's work.

Shells were bursting not far away; detonations came one after another. But the French batteries now remained silent.

"Hit it up again, Don," advised Dunstan, as the car approached a high hill. "If there is any one spot the Boche seem to have the exact range of it's right along here."

"Gideon Watts knows all about that," rejoined the youthful driver, grimly. "Narrow shake he had, eh?—car almost put out of commission and Gideon sent shooting into the road!"

"That day's work was responsible for Gideon getting the Croix de Guerre," said Dunstan. "He stuck to his post with 'arrivés' dropping all about him like hail. I can't imagine Chase Manning doing that, Don."

Farrington began to chuckle softly, though a strained look appeared in his eyes as he glanced up at the sky.

"Don't know enough about him yet to offer any opinion," returned Don.

Then a silence between the two ensued—a silence which continued while the ambulance was chug-chugging its way up the steep incline. Very soon the summit was reached and the dangerous hill and a crossroad near the top left behind.

Don remarked, reflectively:

"I've been thinking about that trip to the Château de Morancourt, Dunstan."

"I haven't," said the other, very frankly. "My mind, just now, was on high-explosive shells."

Don laughed.

"The same here up to a minute or so ago," he confessed. "But honestly, Dunny, somehow, my curiosity has been excited a whole lot by your story about the château."

"I'm glad to hear it," chuckled the art student.

The road in places was deeply rutted and worn by the passage of countless vehicles, but the driver, skilled in the art of avoiding the bad portions, took his car down a gentle slope at quite a lively pace. At length number eight once more began making an ascent, and it was not very long before the summit of the hill was reached. Turning sharply off on a little spur lying at right angles to the main road, the ambulanciers suddenly came in sight of two cars parked close together.

"Here we are at the outpost!" cried Dunstan, quite gaily. "Hello, fellows! What's been going on?"

The door of an abri, or underground shelter near the cars opened, revealing a glare of electric light inside. Four young Americans hastily emerged, and there was a lively series of salutations. Right behind the boys came three French army surgeons dressed in white.

"Ferd Blane and Jim Roland had a couple of blessés,"[2] called one of the Red Cross drivers. "Meet them?"

"You bet—tooting it along at the dickens of a pace, too."

"What happened?"

"A marmite[3] dropped into the door of a dugout in the first-line trenches."

"Hard luck for some poor poilus!" murmured Don.

With a bit of clever maneuvering he brought his car alongside of the other two, then both he and Dunstan sprang to the ground.

"The Boches have been presenting us with some pretty heavy salutes this morning." The same young chap as before, speaking very cheerfully, imparted the information. "And if you don't believe it"—he smiled—"I can make you acquainted with the sight of several new and jolly big shell-holes."

"I told Don that something was happening in this direction, Ravenstock," replied Dunstan. "The worst for a long time, eh?"

"Well, rather. Enough, too, to make the abri look pretty good to us—n'est-ce pas, Messieurs Rice, Batten and Vincent?"

The Americans appealed to agreed, though all seemed to regard the matter as of little importance. Constant association with danger and thrills had long before accustomed them to the strain.

In another moment Don and Dunstan were following the others into the shelter.

## CHAPTER IV

### UNDERGROUND

The abri was quite a pretentious-looking little place. Over the arching entrance was layer upon layer of sand-bags, and on top of these the earth had been packed into a hard, solid mass, thus affording a good protection from the enemy's fire. The shelter, which was situated only a few hundred yards from the front, also served as a poste de secours,[4] three French army surgeons always being in attendance. Still nearer to No Man's Land, in fact almost directly on the battle-line, and, of course, shielded as well as possible, was a "Refuge des blessés," or dressing station, where the brancardiers, or stretcher bearers, conveyed the wounded for first aid treatment.

The duties of the brancardiers were of the most perilous nature. Frequently the men were obliged to crawl out of the trenches after the fallen soldiers, and then, once burdened with the victims of the great war, their movements were so restricted that it became all the more difficult for them to protect themselves. The soldier may have his reward in fame and glory and wear the hero's crown; the brancardier has little but that which comes from his own conscience.

The wounded were brought in from the first-line trenches through connecting trenches, called in French boyaux, to the poste de secours and the waiting Red Cross cars. The brancards—stretchers—are all of the same size, so that they may be used in any ambulance or railway car. It sometimes happens that a "couchée," which means a lying-down case, generally one of a serious nature, reaches a base hospital on the same stretcher on which he was placed after being picked up on the battle-field.

During the early part of the war the wounded were often obliged to wait a long time before being removed, and it was generally in a slowly-moving horse-drawn vehicle. The advent of the Red Cross and the American Field Ambulance was the means of bringing about a wonderful change. The light cars of the sections could travel fast, and whenever haste was the chief and perhaps deciding factor between life and death the patients could be taken to the field hospitals in from ten to twenty minutes. These hospitals were situated about six or seven kilometers from the front. Usually the base hospitals were placed much further away.

During the fierce fighting which had occurred a short time before, the ambulance section to which Don Hale belonged had carried over two thousand wounded inside of a week.

Over the brow of the hill, about a hundred paces from the poste de secours, the main road began to descend, leading in a rather zigzag fashion to a little one-street village which we shall designate as Montaurennes. Montaurennes, with its air of quiet, rustic beauty, well set off by age-mellowed stuccoed walls enclosing gardens, had, at one time, when viewed between the trees from the hilltop, made a charming picture. Not so now, however. Scarcely a whole house was left standing—the majority had been reduced to disordered heaps of bricks and stones, and of the little spired church which once graced its center only a few pieces of jagged walls remained.

Three times the little village had changed hands, and its streets and lanes had witnessed some of the most terrible hand-to-hand conflicts, when steel met steel, and bayonets—not guns—became the deciding factor.

The Germans, however, were finally dislodged, and now the French trenches cut squarely across the eastern end of the highway. Beyond, though not so very far beyond, running in an irregular fashion across the ridges of the opposite hills, stretched another line of trenches—those held by the Germans.

So the eight who had just entered the abri were very close indeed to the scene of actual warfare.

The underground shelter, the air of which was faintly impregnated with the odor of antiseptics, in the glare of the electric light became revealed as a roomy and comfortable retreat. The principal object which struck the eye on entering was an operating table in the center. There were also several stools, a couple of benches ranged alongside the walls and cots for the surgeons.

The ambulanciers who, during their forty-eight hours of duty at the outpost, always remained fully dressed, were content to get what rest they could on the stretchers. Pictures clipped from newspapers and magazines adorned the walls, and Dunstan had also contributed his talent toward making the place pleasant and cheerful by hanging several of his paintings in conspicuous positions.

The drivers stationed at the outpost questioned Don Hale as eagerly concerning his experiences in Paris as the boys at the Hotel de la Palette had done. Any news was welcome to the ambulanciers, who were compelled to pass so much of their time away from the general haunts of men.

"Why in thunder didn't you bring us a stack of prints?" demanded Ravenstock.

"Look in the car," laughed Don.

"Good old scout!" cried the driver, making a rush outside.

In a moment or two, returning with a bundle of Parisian dailies, he was immediately besieged by the others and left in possession of a single copy. Thereupon all, including the three French surgeons, Docteurs Benoist, Savoye and Vianey, deciding that it would be more pleasant outside, left the shelter and made themselves comfortable by the entrance.

The sun, rising higher in the heavens, sent shafts of light over the ground and spotted the boughs and tree trunks with its radiance. Birds flitting among the branches kept up a constant and noisy chattering.

Dunstan, true to his artistic impulses, began making a sketch of Docteur Benoist, and after more than a half hour of studious application, paused long enough to hold it up for inspection.

"Capital—capital!" exclaimed Docteur Vianey, who possessed some knowledge of English. "What certainty of touch!—worthy of Sargent himself, Monsieur Farrington."

"Sargent! Who's Sargent?" demanded Vincent.

"Great Cæsar, man! Do you mean to stand there and tell me you've never heard of Sargent?" cried Dunstan.

"I'm not standing; I'm sitting," corrected Vincent, with a chuckle.

"Oh, well!" The art student shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "One can't expect too much from the man in the street."

"ONE CAN'T EXPECT TOO MUCH."

"Wrong again," laughed the other. "I'm not in the street."

A short time later Ferd Blane and Jim Roland returned from their trip to the field hospital, and they too gave Don Hale a hearty greeting. In answer to his inquiry concerning the blessés Roland spoke up in a tone of conscious pride:

"The medicine chef said that our quick run may have been the means of saving a life. That's the kind of thing which makes a chap feel satisfied to stick to the job no matter how fast the shells are falling."

"You bet!" agreed Don, heartily.

As they talked the sullen, angry roar of the guns came over the air, and every little while, rising sharply above it, the éclat, or explosion, of a shell landing somewhere among the trees.

At length the surgeons and ambulanciers sought shady spots close to the abri, for the day was growing hot, and only an occasional breath of air stirred the leaves and grasses.

Between twelve and two a curious lull came in the cannonading, an almost daily occurrence, which every one attributed to the fact that even the grim business of war must wait on appetite. The batteries of both sides started up briskly again, but the long hours of the afternoon wore on and drew to a close without the brancardiers bringing in any blessés.

A beautiful sunset sky tinged the tree tops with an echo of its brilliant colors, and as the daylight gradually faded, the moon in the east, shining resplendently, gained in strength until at length the forest became a fairylike place—a place of ghostly, silvery lights and grayish shadows.

Owing to the clearness of the night no traffic was moving close to the front; so the German batteries threw but few shells in the direction of the road.

"I guess I'll get a little rest," declared Rice, as midnight approached.

"So shall I," said Jim Roland. "I'm going to take mine in the car."

"Have a care, mon ami," advised Docteur Vianey.

"That's the trouble; we have too many already," chuckled the ambulancier.

Don and Dunstan, electing to follow Roland's example, a short time later climbed into number eight and made themselves comfortable on the brancards, or stretchers, using a rolled up blanket as a pillow. And while they lay there waiting—still waiting for the call of duty, the whistle of the "arrivés," as the shells which came from the German guns were called, and the "departs"—those hurled by the French batteries—frequently sounded over the air.

But the night passed without any especial incident.

The next day was almost a repetition of the first, and when Don and Dunstan, at the expiration of their forty-eight hour stretch, returned to headquarters they had made only one trip to the field hospital. Each knew, however, that it was only a question of time when the nature of their occupation would necessarily carry them into a great deal more excitement and danger than they cared about.

## CHAPTER V

### UNDER FIRE

It frequently happened that the ambulanciers had been obliged to take their meals in the midst of shell-pitted fields, or perhaps in some little village street. On such occasions planks thrown across a couple of saw-horses served as a table.

At the Hotel de la Palette, however, things were very different. There, in the dining-room of the hostelry, they sat in comfort at the same tables before which, in former times, peasants and care-free patrons had once enjoyed repasts. The room, too, was very attractive, for the visiting artists had recorded with paint and brush their impressions of the charming scenery around. One of these pictures, executed on the panel of a door, was signed by an English landscape artist who later became a celebrated Royal Academician.

The rolling field kitchen, in charge of a French army cook, stood in one corner of the courtyard, and the members of the section took turns in acting as "chow," as the waiter was humorously called.

Don and Dunstan found that during their absence Chase Manning had been doing evacuation work—that is, conveying the wounded from the field hospital to a base hospital further away from the front. They learned, too, that he would be en repos[5] for the day.

"That's fine!" cried Don, as all sat around the breakfast table. "Why not let's pay the Château de Morancourt a visit this afternoon?"

"I'm with you," replied Chase.

"So am I," agreed Dunstan, heartily.

One of the drivers, "Tiny" Mason, began to laugh heartily. He had gained the appellation of "Tiny," so Bodkins explained to the uninformed, because his stature displaced only five feet three inches of atmosphere.

"I suppose you chaps are going to find out all about that missing stuff, eh?" he chuckled.

"If we do I'll let you know," laughed the art student.

Producing a pocket map, he showed his companions the location of the structure.

"Hello! It isn't very far from the Chemin de Mort," exclaimed Don, in surprise.

"Quite correct, my boy," said Dunstan.

"I'd much rather it were in some other direction," muttered Chase.

"Come on, Dunstan, let's get through our work," cried Don, rising from his seat and making a break for the courtyard door. "Old number eight has to be freshened up a bit and overhauled."

This task kept the boys busily occupied until lunch time, but immediately after the meal, accompanied by Chase, they left the hotel and headed toward the east.

The dusty village street was full of reservists; poilus were eating, poilus were lounging about or strolling here and there, all ready at any moment, however, to march to the first-line trenches and face the invisible foe and death.

Now and then, in the midst of all this environment of war, peasants trudged along, sometimes accompanied by children, several so young that they could have known nothing else during their brief existence on earth but the horror, the noise and turmoil of war.

Presently a military car having two stars painted on the right hand corner of the windshield, the insignia of a general, shot past the Americans, and closely following, in the wake of dust which trailed behind, came a motor cyclist with a large wicker basket strapped to his shoulders. Through openings in the receptacle the boys caught a fleeting glimpse of a number of birds.

"A despatch bearer carrying pigeons to the front," declared Dunstan. "I understand they have performed most valuable service in delivering messages, and are seldom killed. Thus does man make use of even the birds of the air to further his ends."

"He'd make use of cats if he could," growled Chase.

Passing the ancient porte, where a sentry gravely saluted them, Don, Dunstan and Chase branched off into a road leading in a northeasterly direction toward the rolling hills and battle-front beyond.

The village fell further and further behind, and finally a rise in the ground hid it from view. At length the three stopped on a hilltop to take a survey of a broad and impressive view of the surrounding country. The surface of the earth in innumerable places presented a most singular appearance. It was as if some giant plow had been driven again and again across it, so turning up the rich brown soil that nature's covering of green was almost entirely obliterated.

"The marmites have made a pretty thorough job of it," remarked Don.

"Why are the big shells called marmites?" inquired Chase.

"Because they gouge a big round hole in the ground somewhat like the shape of a saucepan, in French a marmite," explained the aviator's son.

"Thanks. Ruin—ruin, as far as the vision carries; ruin—ruin beyond, and still further beyond!"

"Yes; but there is something which seems to typify the unconquerable spirit of the nation," exclaimed Dunstan.

With a sweep of his hand he called attention to several peasant women and old men, in sabots or wooden shoes, guiding plows and harrows across a field.

"Farming in this part of France just now certainly has its drawbacks," said Don. "I've heard it said that to one shell which lands in the trenches a hundred drop behind the lines."

Resuming the march, the ambulanciers went down the gentle slopes of the hill. Soldiers had scarcely ever been out of their sight, and now more of them became in evidence. Groups of bearded, sun-tanned men, whose uniforms showed the effects of weather and contact with the earth, were taking things easy in the shade of the trees or along the road.

"But if a bombardment should suddenly start up the timber would seem almost to swallow them," declared the art student. "There must be dugouts and bomb-proof shelters all through these woods."

"Votre laissez passer, messieurs, s'il vous plait!"[6]

A sentry's challenge rang out sharply.

One glance at their papers, and he waved them on.

Up and down hill they tramped. The day was superb, and legions of light, fleecy clouds sent legions of delicate shadows skimming across the landscape. But though peace was in nature the ambulanciers were always forcibly reminded of the fact that the great war was going on all about them.

Over the brow of another ridge a sign conspicuously nailed to a tree brought them to a pause.

"No vehicles further than this by daylight," they read.

"I am a sufficient believer in signs to pay attention to that warning," remarked Chase, with an uneasy look on his face.

"It certainly wouldn't be wise to venture where vehicles may not go," laughed Don.

"Scarcely!" put in Dunstan, dryly.

Retracing their steps, the three soon reached a rather narrow crossroad running in an easterly and westerly direction over a series of hills. After following the much-traveled thoroughfare for a considerable distance, the boys discovering, by the aid of Dunstan's map, that they were being taken out of their way, decided to leave it. The ascent up a steep slope, plentifully bestrewn with vegetation, was so hard and toilsome that all were delighted, on arriving at the top, to discover a broad, almost level field stretching over to a tree-crowned ridge about two hundred and fifty yards away.

"Thank goodness!" panted Chase.

"Let's take a breathing spell," suggested Don.

"Most cheerfully, mes cher amis," said Dunstan.

Seating themselves on the edge of an old shell-crater, the three rested until the effects of their strenuous exertions had entirely disappeared. When they started once more they had gone more than half-way across the field when a figure popped into view over the crest of the opposite ridge with almost the suddenness of a Jack-in-the-Box. It was a poilu—evidently a sentry; for they could see him, stationed by the edge of the trees, making energetic motions, as if he wished to hurry them on.

"I suppose we must be breaking some military regulation and are liable to arrest," said Chase, half jokingly.

To his surprise, Don and Dunstan, looking considerably startled, began to cast apprehensive glances toward the east, at the same time increasing their pace. And then, just as the young chap from Maine was about to put into words a query that had flashed into his mind a most alarming thing occurred.

It was the sharp crack of a rifle and the zip of a bullet, as it struck the ground but a few yards distant and plowed up and scattered a bit of earth.

A terrifying fact was revealed to all—they were in full view of the German "snipers."[7] That broad, peaceful-looking field was in reality a miniature "No Man's Land," where none might tarry for a single instant and expect to live.

## CHAPTER VI

### ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

From relative security to the most appalling peril, and all in a moment of time, was the unhappy position into which the three ambulanciers had fallen. It was enough to drive the color from their faces, and send cold chills sweeping one after another through their frames.

The startled cries were still on their lips, when, almost as if a powerful spring had set them into motion, they began a race—a wild and furious race toward their goal—the tree-crowned ridge where the sentry stood. And each of the three ran as only people can run when the stake is the greatest in all the world—life itself.

Zip! Zip! Zip!

A regular fusillade of bullets was wickedly singing and humming past their heads and thudding dully into the turf close about them.

Like professional sprinters on the cinder path trying for a record the ambulanciers exerted themselves to the utmost, sometimes one in the lead, sometimes another. Now and then an obstruction made them swerve aside or inequalities in the ground slacken their pace, but never for a single instant did either of the trio cease his almost superhuman efforts.

Zip! Zip!

Still the bullets came flying through the air, first to one side of them, then to the other, now landing just behind, now just ahead.

Neck and neck, panting, perspiring, the three with their faces exhibiting all the terror and strain which such a situation would naturally create, kept doggedly on.

Neither Don, Dunstan nor Chase actually believed there was one chance in a thousand of winning that race against the snipers' lead. All were in the grasp of fear and despair. Yet, if the boys found their mental faculties tending to yield to the terror of the moment they did not allow that fact to interfere with their physical efforts.

It seemed as if that tree-crowned ridge were as far away as ever.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

No! It never could be reached in safety!

A sharp, startling snap sounded almost at the feet of the aviator's son—a stone had been splintered—shattered, and the fragments narrowly missed him.

Don Hale was puffing harder and harder with the strenuous exertion; his heart seemed to beat with alarming force; a painful dryness had come into his throat. The boy could see Dunstan on his left; Chase on his right; both, like himself, striving with all the energy and determination they possessed to get out of the danger zone.

Crack! Crack!

Suddenly Chase tripped and went sprawling—down he was on his knees, his arms outstretched before him.

Don Hale groaned. To his excited, overwrought imagination, one of them at least had ended his part in the game of life and death.

Notwithstanding an almost irresistible impulse to keep on running, a desperate, flying leap sent him to the other side.

"Chase—Chase!" he gasped, hoarsely. "Chase!"

The other was beginning to scramble up.

"Are you hit, old man?" To Don's relief the other shook his head.

He seized Manning's arm, and, with that strength and vigor often given to those who find themselves in terrible danger, dragged him to his feet. The tension created by that momentary stoppage brought beads of cold, clammy perspiration to the faces of each.

Dunstan had halted and was yelling frantically for them to come on. A stream of bullets hummed past; a single shot struck the ground ahead.

The race was on once more.

It seemed almost miraculous that none of the runners was brought down during the fusillade that immediately followed. Don Hale could scarcely believe it possible. Renewed hope sprang into his heart; renewed strength came into his body.

A dozen yards only—ten—five.

Breathless, almost exhausted, the aviator's son fairly flung himself across the top of the ridge and down on the other side, and as he did so:

Zip! Zip! Crack!

A branch of a sapling, cut cleanly off by a bullet, came tumbling at his feet.

That final effort sent the boy in a heap. But he was happy—extraordinarily happy—filled, indeed, with a gratitude to providence so great that he could have found no words with which to give it expression. He was safe. Dunstan and Chase were safe—wonderful!—almost unbelievable!

It took the three some moments to recover their breath sufficiently to speak, then Dunstan, with a very faint smile, addressed the poilu, or, rather, the poilus, for quite an interested crowd had gathered about them.

"Kindly pardon our haste in dropping over to see you," he exclaimed. "But the Germans were urging us to hurry."

"You should have kept to the road, mes Americaines," declared an artillery lieutenant who stood by the sentry's side. "Had you done so this would never have happened."

"Ah?"

"Yes; there is a notice posted at the top of the hill which reads: 'Danger! Keep to the left!' In future beware of all short cuts. They are apt to be short cuts to death!"

"Very true," acquiesced Don, grimly.

"The experience has been hard on your friend."

Chase Manning was clearly suffering from shock; a pallor had overspread his face; his mouth and eyes were twitching; his strength seemed to have deserted his trembling form. He leaned heavily against a tree trunk for support.

"Not here very long, I suppose?" continued the lieutenant, in a lower tone. "Otherwise——" He made an expressive gesture. "But he'll become habituated in time; one always does."

In a few moments Don and Dunstan were kept busy answering various questions, then the sentry spoke up, saying:

"The time was when the Boches didn't bother to fire at any one crossing that field, but lately they have become quite mechant."[8]

"The truth of the old saying 'All's well that ends well' has been demonstrated to our satisfaction," declared Don, his features relaxing into a faint smile. "Feeling all right now, Chase?"

"No! Who could?" counter-questioned the other, in a tremulous voice. "It was frightful."

And after voicing this opinion young Manning became silent again.

The side of the hill facing the German trenches was absolutely deserted, but the opposite slope the ambulanciers found densely crowded with poilus. And these soldiers of the twentieth century had virtually become modern cave men; for, imitating the example of their primitive ancestors, they had burrowed into the earth and made for themselves habitations. There were hundreds and hundreds of dugouts in the immediate vicinity, all so skilfully concealed or disguised by various devices that a German airman flying directly overhead would in all probability not have discovered their presence.

A long time passed before Chase felt in any mood to join in the conversation, and then, thoroughly disgusted at having allowed his feelings to be so plainly seen, he became more than usually sullen.

Suddenly the ambulanciers discovered that there were other sounds in the air besides the distant booming of cannon and the occasional explosion of a shell.

"Music, as I live!" cried Don Hale. "Where in the world is that coming from?"

He addressed the artillery lieutenant.

"The theatrical performance has just started," answered the officer, with a smile. "Perhaps Messieurs would like to witness the comedy? Plenty of bomb-proof shelters close by," he added, pleasantly.

"Should we like to see it? Yes, indeed," cried the aviator's son, enthusiastically.

"And thus the scene shifts from near-tragedy to comedy!" laughed Dunstan. "Coming, Chase?"

The latter had been showing no inclination to budge from his position, but in answer to the question he gave a gruff assent, then slowly rose to his feet, and Don, standing near by, heard him mutter:

"Awful, awful! I can scarcely believe I'm alive."

As the three Americans followed their soldier-guide along the foot-path, which wound its way in a serpentine direction through the forest, they were greeted everywhere with cordial salutations. The way led past an amazing number of subterranean retreats, representing such a vast amount of time and labor that Dunstan could not help remarking thoughtfully:

"Too bad that so much energy had to be put into work of such a character!"

"I guess that thought was in the mind of every one who helped to dig," growled Chase.

The artillery lieutenant smiled.

"This war has certainly proved as nothing else ever did the wonderful ability of mankind to adapt itself to every sort of condition, no matter how difficult or unusual. It has given tremendous impetus to inventive genius all over the world, particularly in connection with the science of aeronautics. The conquest of the air is almost complete."

"My father is an aviator in the American army," declared Don, proudly. "Formerly he served with a French squadron. Some day I hope to be an airman myself."

"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed the lieutenant, evidently very much pleased. "But ma foi! You are very young."

"Yes. I've no objection to that, however," laughed Don. "I suppose, Monsieur le Lieutenant, there are plenty of guns around here?"

"Do you see any?"

"No; and I don't expect to unless I should happen to find a muzzle sticking right in my face."

"Ah! The art of camouflage is another thing I might have mentioned. But, to change the subject, the Americans have proved themselves very great friends of the French, and to show that I am among those who are appreciative of it I am going to invite you all to pay a visit, whenever it is convenient, to the battery to which I am attached. You accept, n'est-ce pas?"

"I should say so!—eh, mes camarades?" exclaimed Don, enthusiastically.

He turned toward his companions.

The art student assented heartily, though Chase, who still looked pale and haggard, merely muttered his thanks and shrugged his shoulders non-committally.

As the Americans proceeded they became more and more surprised at the immense number of men and dugouts to be seen on every side—indeed they were passing over the top of a veritable underground village, with little lanes running in all directions, so as to afford access to the various quarters.

"Naturally, there isn't always so much life and activity on this hill," said the lieutenant, when Don mentioned the subject. He pointed to the surrounding forest. Many of the trees had been snapped in twain by high-explosive shells, while others lay prostrate on the ground; indeed, but very few had escaped being scarred, gashed or broken by the various bombardments. "Sometimes it is just as dangerous as you found it back yonder."

At this reminder of their thrilling experience Chase Manning perceptibly shivered.

"That's the kind of an experience which will stick in a fellow's memory forever," he said, almost as if speaking to himself. The grim look suddenly flashed away from his face. "Don, you're a brave kid."

"Oh, it wasn't anything!" broke in the aviator's son, lightly. "You would have done the same."

The sound of music had been growing steadily louder, and now the melodious strains of a song chanted by hundreds of voices were wafted through the forest. It was very charming—very idyllic, and in strange contrast to the sounds of warfare coming from the distance.

A rather sharp turn, and they arrived almost abruptly at a clearing. To one side, at the very edge of the trees, the ambulanciers caught sight of a little stage, where the soldier-actors were going through their parts with considerable fervor. And they were playing before a large and enthusiastic audience, to whom, apparently, thoughts of war were the very last in their minds.

"The comedy is the work of one of our officers," explained the lieutenant. "It is entitled 'The Poilu's Ten Days in Paris.' I hope, mes Americaines, you will find it worth more than the price of admission."

"No doubt about that," laughed Don.

"The last performance was abruptly terminated by a shell falling only a short distance from the stage. We must trust that to-day the boys will have better luck."

"You can just bet we do," mumbled Chase.

The artillery officer conducted them as close as he could to the little improvised theater, then, after a brief conversation, during which he reminded them of their promise to pay the battery a visit, and stated that his name was Lieutenant D'Arraing, he bowed politely and was speedily lost to view.

The ambulanciers found themselves quite the center of attraction, and so much good humor and jollity around them went very far toward effacing from the minds of all the remembrance of their recent peril.

Dunstan very aptly described the play presented by the amateur actors as "rip-roaring farce." A great many most extraordinary things occurred during the "Poilu's Ten Days in Paris," and the pleasure of witnessing all these laughable episodes was considerably enhanced, at least according to the ideas of the boys, by the choruses, in which the audience generally joined. An orchestra of five did valiant service.

Altogether the Americans enjoyed the performance hugely, though several times the explosions of shells sounded with unpleasant distinctness.

After it was all over Don, Dunstan and Chase met so many poilus who were eager to converse with them, especially on the subject of America's entrance into the great war, that their departure was long delayed—so long delayed indeed that an idea came into the art student's head.

"Fellows," he said, "there's a great deal in first impressions."

"What's the sequel to that remark?" asked Chase.

"It just occurred to me that we might tarry around here even longer, so that we might get our first view of the famous Château de Morancourt by the mystic light of the moon."

"'Peewee' should have heard that!" chuckled Don.

"If your artistic spirit craves that shadows and gloom should hover over the old pile of stones and make it suggest a picture-postal, so be it," grinned Chase.

"Very good!" said Dunstan.

Standing by the side of a tree, he began tapping on the bark.

The smiling Don translated the following message:

"Perhaps the castle by moonlight may be too much for our friend's nerves."

The aviator's son replied:

"I wonder if he'll have an irresistible impulse to run."

"He wasn't cut out for this sort of life."

"No; an easy chair in an office for him."

"Bodkins' woodpeckers again!" broke in Chase, with a yawn. "A funny kind of a habit, I call it."

"Maybe so," grinned Don.

The three began to stroll leisurely here and there, quite often accompanied by one or more of the poilus. Down by a little creek they came across a number lined up alongside the bank engaged in the prosaic occupation of washing clothes and hanging them out to dry on convenient saplings and branches.

"Another illustration of man's adaptability," laughed Don.

In the midst of congenial company, with much to interest them, time passed rapidly, and finally the ambulanciers, who had brought supper with them, took seats on a bit of turf and began their meal.

And though at times the mosquitoes and gnats made things decidedly uncomfortable, there they remained until the sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon and the moonbeams were gaining sufficient strength to reveal their presence upon the face of nature.

Then Dunstan jumped to his feet, exclaiming:

"It's time for us to be on the move."

"Hooray! Now for the last stretch!" cried Don.

"And the Château de Morancourt by moonlight!" added Chase.

## CHAPTER VII

### THE CHÂTEAU

About a quarter of an hour later the three Americans were standing before a high and ornamental gateway which led into the great park belonging to the château. Only a small portion of the De Morancourt coat of arms which once adorned it remained in place, and the ancient bricks showed in many places the destructive effects of German shells.

"This must be one of those real, bona-fide, genuine châteaus we read about," commented Chase.

"Yes; according to what I have been told it dates back to the time of Louis the Fourteenth," said the art student.

"I do wonder what could have become of all those pictures and art treasures!" mused Don.

"A lot of other people have been wondering, too; and whether they will ever get beyond the wondering stage or not is problematical."

"Suppose we get into the wandering stage."

"I don't see any stage."

"At any rate, let us hope there won't be anything unlucky about this stage of our journey," put in Chase, dryly.

Entering the grounds, the three found themselves on a wide carriage road, bordered on each side with stately trees. The moonlight flooded the scene with unusual brilliancy, and some of the ancient oaks, which had escaped the destroying shells, made a grimly-impressive picture, as their boughs and branches were silhouetted against the steely bluish tones of the sky. Here and there the roadway was deeply shadowed; in other places, it gleamed with a ghostly paleness amid the surrounding gloom.

At one time the park had evidently been anything but a haven of refuge; for the same sort of havoc which existed elsewhere was to be found on all sides—fallen trees, mutilated trunks and the earth torn up by projectiles. And Chase Manning observed, with considerable uneasiness, that some of the shells must have very recently fallen.

"I declare, this makes me think of some of those old-time romantic novels!" declared Dunstan, with enthusiasm. "What an air of charm and mystery there is all about us! And look, mes amis, what do I see?—Actually a marble group which has probably weathered the storm of centuries past and strangely enough even escaped the present danger!"

In a glade to their left the ambulanciers saw what had once been a fountain. The center of the spacious marble basin was occupied by a gigantic figure of Neptune surrounded by a number of rearing and plunging horses. In the full glare of the moonlight, portions of the ancient marble forms were clearly revealed in broad masses of greenish white, against the background of trees beyond; the rest disappeared in the shadows.

Even Chase—Chase who rarely took heed of the pleasing or the picturesque—gave an exclamation expressive of admiration.

"By George!—just to see that is worth all the trouble we have taken!" cried Don, as they walked up to obtain a view at closer range.

"At some future time it means another sketch for my portfolio," declared Dunstan. "How very still these fiery-looking horses simulating rapid action are," he continued, reflectively, "but how vivid the impression of life and activity each conveys to the mind! And how very silent they are! Yet one gifted with a little imagination can almost hear them snorting, in their haste and excitement."

"Pretty good, boy! Keep it up," said Chase.

"And Neptune, gaunt and threatening, with his arm upraised, appears to be urging them on, as though unmindful of the fact that he and they are forever destined to remain immovable!"

"Bravo!"

Standing before the time-worn group, in the lonely and deserted park, with the vegetation all about them rustling in the faint breeze, Don Hale felt a peculiar sensation of awe stealing over him.

"Dunstan was right—it makes a chap almost feel as if he were living in another age," he thought. And then, aloud, the aviator's son exclaimed: "How curious it is to think that perhaps two or three hundred years ago people may have looked upon this very same group!"

"Yes; in all probability kings and courtiers, grand seigneurs and noble dames once cast their eyes upon it," remarked Dunstan. "Ah, if I could only invoke the muse, what a grand poem I could compose!"

"And by so doing either provoke or amuse us," chuckled Chase, with the first laugh he had been heard to utter during the day.

"Good!—Chase's second joke!" cried Don, approvingly.

"Allons, mes amis—let's go!"

The trio, skirting around the fountain, reached the road again and continued to tramp steadily on. The way led up a slight ascent, and occasionally, through openings in the trees, they caught glimpses of charming bits of scenery, with shadowy, mysterious-looking hills looming up beyond. Then they observed what had once been very wonderful lawns, but which were now mere fields overrun with weeds and tall grasses and deeply pitted here and there with shell-holes.

They were approaching a bend, and the moment the turn was reached Dunstan stopped short, and, with a wave of his hand, exclaimed dramatically:

"'Behold yon tower;
Mark well those crumbling walls—
Those silent chroniclers of years gone by,
Of tyranny and tears!'"

"The Château de Morancourt is before our eyes!" cried Don. "Hooray!"

"The park seems to equal the château and the château to equal the park," commented Chase.

Not far ahead, situated on the crest of a hill, the grim-looking mediæval structure, with its wings and gables and partly demolished tower, presented a singularly impressive appearance. From where they stood the soft, mysterious light of the moon mercifully concealed from view the great damage wrought by the missiles.

"En avant!—Forward march!" cried Dunstan. "Isn't it curious to think, fellows, that not so very long ago the Germans learned about the tower being used as an observation post, and the result was——"

"That there are no longer any observers, I suppose?" broke in Don.

"Exactly!"

"A nice place you have led us to!" growled Chase.

He gave a perceptible start, for at that very instant a star shell soared majestically up from the German lines, and then, having reached a great altitude, burst into flames, casting all around it a brilliant whitish glare.

The nearer the ambulanciers approached the Château de Morancourt the grander and more awesome the massive structure appeared. Over the air from afar came the faint rumble of the convoys, but a strange, melancholy silence, which accorded well with the solemn aspect of the building and its surroundings, hovered over the park.

"How suggestive of dark deeds and mystery!" murmured Dunstan. Then he added, meditatively: "I wonder if we couldn't manage to get a look inside!"

"By all means let's try," cried Don.

The three walked under a magnificent porte-cochère, supported by graceful pillars, and came to a halt before the entrance. It was very dark and somber in the shadow—so dark and somber indeed that the massive door which surmounted a broad flight of stone steps leading up on either side could be scarcely seen.

Don, Dunstan and Chase could make out the dim outlines of a marble lion supporting a shield which stood on a pedestal at the bottom of the escalier, or steps. Without stopping to admire its savage and formidable appearance, they began to mount, feeling their way by means of the massive marble balustrade. Arriving at the top, Dunstan gave the big door a vigorous push. So did Don and Chase. Once, twice—three times they tried it, but their efforts were of no avail.

"Nothing doing!" growled Chase. "It would take a German shell to open that ton of door."

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again," laughed Don.

By this time, their eyes having become more accustomed to the darkness, they were able to discern some of the details on the great entrance and on the magnificent lamps which flanked it to the right and left.

"Splendid," exclaimed Dunstan. "It makes me all the more determined to gain an entrance."

And so speaking, he skipped lightly down the opposite flight of steps. His companions clattered after him.

Then the three began walking along by the side of the building, and though it was all very much obscured it was not so dark as to prevent them from detecting the presence of scars and holes and cracks which everywhere disfigured the walls. Passing around several wings into the full glare of the moonlight, the ambulanciers kept steadily on until the imposing façade of the château was reached. Great bay windows and projecting portions relieved the structure from any appearance of monotony, and here and there thick masses of vines climbing over the weather-stained walls helped to soften their grim and threatening aspect. The lower windows were within easy reach of the ground, and as Don Hale's eyes lighted on the third from the end he gave a loud cry of exultation.

"Look, fellows—how's that for luck! There's one almost entirely demolished."

"Unkind fate for the château is kind fate for us," exclaimed Dunstan.

"I hope we shall not find ourselves in a waking nightmare," declared Chase. "I'm not so keen about going inside."

"Oh, pshaw!" broke in the aviator's son, impatiently.

He sprinted over to the window, and, reaching up, gripped hold of the sill. Strong and muscular, it was an easy task for the boy to draw himself up and climb astride it. Leaning forward, he peered eagerly inside the room. The window, like every other along that side of the building, admitted a shaft of moonlight, which, for a short distance, streaked weirdly across the floor. Don found himself staring at his own shadow, singularly clear-cut in the midst of the pale greenish-blue patch before him; then his glances wandered beyond. But all was shrouded in deep obscurity.

Without hesitation the boy eased himself down into the room, which he could tell was of immense and imposing dimensions.

"Come on, fellows," he called, "so in case I fall into the cellar you can pick me up."

Bringing forth a small flash-light from an inside pocket, Don turned on the brilliant rays just as the figure of Dunstan loomed up in the window.

"This is an adventure that appeals to my imagination," remarked the art student, cheerfully, as he clambered down and joined his companion.

A moment later Chase stood beside them.

Don Hale sent the beam of light flashing all around them, and as its rays revealed the richness of the interior all three ambulanciers gave voice to emphatic expressions of admiration.

"Great, splendid—superb!" cried Dunstan. "I've just discovered what's been the matter with me all along—this is the sort of place I should have lived in."

"Quite naturally; artists as a rule inhabit castles," remarked Chase, dryly, "though sometimes they are airy, like the stuff of which dreams are made. By George, fellows, what a spooky-looking place!"

"It is, indeed," asserted Dunstan, meditatively. "Strange that the Count de Morancourt should have left without putting his goods in storage!"

"Nothing strange about it," said Don. "I reckon the furniture vans wouldn't have lasted very long—see!" The light fell across several huge apertures in the opposite wall which told of the accuracy of the German artillery. "Must have been pretty hot around here, eh?"

"Quite so," responded Dunstan laconically.

The three walked around a massive oak table in the center of the room and then up to a huge fireplace at one end, where they halted. The ribbon of light quivered and flashed on an ancient suit of armor hanging just above and from there traveled to a great shield with the coat of arms of the De Morancourts emblazoned upon it. Higher up the head of a stag suddenly popped forth from the darkness, its glassy eyes seeming to stare down upon them with a look of wonder.

"Perhaps, in the age of the bow and arrow, some old ancestor of the count's brought him low," commented Chase.

Led by Don Hale, the ambulanciers continued their tour of inspection. Now the flash-light brought into view old tapestries of mellow and harmonious tones, or rows of ancestral portraits, many probably dating from the dim and distant past. The earliest of these, very somber in tone and much cracked, represented the De Morancourts as stern-visaged and august-looking personages who had a penchant for wearing armor and clasping heavy swords.

"I shouldn't like to have any old chaps of their type challenging me to fight a duel," laughed Dunstan. "Suppose we see what the rest of the château has to offer us."

Both footsteps and voices echoed in a most uncanny fashion, and Chase found that somehow the darkness and mystery of the great interior were producing rather creepy sensations within him. Often, to his imagination, the room became peopled with an assemblage of the great personages of the past. And then, though he knew it was quite absurd, an unpleasant, vaguely-defined fear assailed him that at any moment some one might step out of the shadows and demand the reason for their presence in those ancestral halls.

The next apartment the visitors entered was almost as large and even more gorgeous than the preceding. A magnificent oval painting adorned the ceiling. The walls were wainscoted with oak, and a richly-carved mantelpiece of the same wood particularly attracted the ambulanciers' attention.

"Now I can better understand the value of the things which disappeared," declared Chase. "No wonder such a howl went up."

"I hate mysteries which are never solved," cried Don. "I wish to goodness that before the section moves on some one would get busy and give us an answer to this riddle."

"No danger," grunted Chase.

In a deep bay window the light disclosed fine stained glass, evidently of rich colors and graceful designs.

So interested was the young chap from Maine in examining the various furnishings that he did not notice a chair lying in his path until he brought up against it with considerable violence.

Uttering an exclamation of impatience, he gave the offending piece of furniture a vigorous shove, which sent it flying directly into the curtained doorway leading to the dining-room.

"Hurt yourself?" asked Dunstan, pleasantly.

"Not enough for it to get any mention in the Parisian papers," growled the other.

The Red Cross men thought that the dining-room, with its heavily-beamed ceiling, carved sideboards and china closets, in spite of a certain air of heaviness and austerity, must have been a very pleasant place in which to eat.

"The château seems more like a museum than a place of residence," declared Don. "But, fellows, we'd better hustle a bit faster. You know a German marmite may be flying in this direction at any minute."

"A sensible suggestion," said the art student; "for nothing is more certain than that we are in the midst of the greatest of uncertainties."

Reaching the entrance hall they discovered a very elegant staircase, with ornate newel posts and balustrades, ascending to a balcony.

"Just a moment—let's finish our inspection of the first floor before venturing into the unknown regions above," exclaimed Chase.

Cautiously following the pathway of light, which ever streamed far in advance, the trio presently entered a long apartment which brought forth involuntary exclamations of admiration from all.

"The ballroom!" cried Dunstan.

"And the show-place of the whole château," exclaimed Don.

"It certainly is a show, all right," commented Chase. "What staggering sums of money it must have taken to run such an establishment!"

"I don't think I could have managed it on my income," laughed Don.

On one side of the ballroom stretched gilded mirrors and magnificent decorations, while on the other a long row of high, arched windows faced the park. In whichever direction the light traveled some new and unexpected beauty flashed into view. The beams sparkled and shone on candelabra, on paintings and tapestries, and sometimes reaching up to the ceiling disclosed a bluish vault, in imitation of the heavens, studded with golden stars.

"Enough of this!" cried Chase, suddenly. "We don't want to stay here all night."

And turning abruptly on his heel, the new member of the Red Cross hurried away.

A few moments later the three uninvited visitors were ascending the stairway.

## CHAPTER VIII

### A MAN-HUNT

Some time previously a certain projectile had left a certain gun situated a certain distance to the rear of the German trenches, and this shell, no doubt owing to the correct calculations of a certain artillery officer, had exploded so near the Château de Morancourt as to destroy the upper portion of the tower. Perhaps it was this very same shell which had caused the French to decide that the château could no longer be used as an observation post.

"Let Americans not rush in where French officers fear to tread!" chuckled the aviator's son, as they entered the doorway leading to the tower.

Yet, notwithstanding his levity, the boy felt a certain sense of awe—of solemnity. There they were, in a place which only recently the Germans had made a target for their shells, and he fully realized that should suspicion be aroused, even in the slightest degree, it would mean another bombardment.

Had the builders of the ancient tower designed it for the purpose of giving the beholder a vivid impression of a prison they had succeeded well. The solid masonry and the long, narrow windows, heavily barred, through which the light feebly sought admittance, were all calculated to produce that effect.

As a matter of precaution, Don shut off the light, then headed the advance up the circular flight of stone steps.

"Remember—eternal vigilance is the price of life," exclaimed Dunstan.

"Oh, cut out such theatrical stuff," broke in Chase, impatiently.

The ambulanciers ascended higher and higher until they reached the summit, which was broken and jagged.

"Thus far shalt thou go, and no further," chanted Chase, in sepulchral tones.

With the utmost caution, Don Hale peered over the wall.

How high up it seemed!—higher by far than he had ever imagined. From his lofty position he could look over the roof of the main building and wings and see the moonlight gleaming here and there. Then his eyes took in a portion of the rear walls, deep in shadow, their base and the porte-cochère, so far below, losing themselves in the darkness.

"Magnificent!" he exclaimed.

The far-reaching view embraced the ranges of rolling hills to the east. Between the Red Cross men and that wide sweep of ridges, patched with soft, indefinite masses of lights and shadows, wherein charm and mystery rested in equal degrees, lay that stretch of territory known as "No Man's Land"—the most dangerous spot on the globe. On one hand it was bounded by the French trenches; on the other by the German.

"And all along its tortuous course of hundreds of miles through Belgium and France there is but ruin and desolation!" exclaimed Dunstan Farrington, in thoughtful tones. "Farms, villages, towns and forests have paid the penalty for being in its sinister path. Sometimes it sweeps forward, then moves back again, as surprise assaults and counter-attacks are made by one side or the other. Every day, perhaps every hour, its position is responsible for some new horror and tragedy."

"Yes," said Don, slowly.

"Then, just think of all the devices for causing destruction and sudden death which lie concealed everywhere on its narrow width," put in Chase. His morose manner returned in full force. "Nothing that the ingenuity of man can conceive of has been neglected."

"But even that isn't enough to prevent patrols of French and German infantrymen from crawling beyond their own wire entanglements during the night on reconnoitering expeditions," interjected Don. "Whew!" he shivered slightly. "What courage—what sang-froid it must require!"

"Excuse me from trying it," said Chase.

The guns had never ceased rumbling, and occasionally the sharp cracking of rifles or the staccato reports of machine guns, astonishingly clear, jarred over the air.

"Dunstan—your field-glass, if you please!"

It was the aviator's son who spoke.

Silently Dunstan drew the instrument from its case and passed it to his companion.

The boy immediately raised the glass to his eyes and gave a little gasp of pleasure.

Beyond the park, in fact, far beyond the point where its limitations were marked by a row of tall poplars, which, like grim and forbidding sentinels stood by the boundary walls, he could see a field of wheat, waving and rippling in the breeze.

Why did a sort of thrill run through him?

Because the aviator's son felt reasonably sure that he looked upon a portion of that famous area between the lines. The proof was this: On the slopes of the hill which hemmed it in the powerful glass brought into view a faint, irregular row of whitish objects, a wall of sand-bags crowning the German trenches.

In rapt silence, Don gazed upon the distant landscape. How strangely serene and beautiful it appeared in the silvery light of the moon! And just as he was about to utter some of the thoughts which the poetic scene evoked in his mind, he gave a slight start, lowered the glass and faced Dunstan Farrington.

"What was that?" Don exclaimed.

"What was what?" demanded the other.

"Didn't you hear a noise?"

"No."

"Where?" asked Chase, interestedly.

"Down below—in the château itself."

"In the château itself!" repeated Manning. A suspicious note crept into his voice. "You're joking, son!"

"No sir, I'm not," asserted Don, emphatically. "It was very faint, but distinct, and sounded exactly like something falling."

"It's a case of nerves," declared Chase, a little disagreeably. "Forget it."

Don Hale, however, couldn't be convinced that he was mistaken, though perceiving how skeptical the others were he wisely made no attempt to argue about the matter.

Chase took an observation through the field-glass, so did Dunstan, and each was as interested as Don Hale in seeing "No Man's Land" seemingly brought so close to their eyes.

"Now I'm through with the Château de Morancourt," declared Chase, finally. "What's the use of tempting fate any longer? There wouldn't be very much glory in letting a marmite get us while we're engaged in sightseeing, eh?"

"I've decided objections to it," chuckled Don.

"There has been a wonderful change in the splendor of warfare," said Dunstan, who appeared not to have heard these observations. "No longer the dashing cavalry charges led by officers with waving swords; no longer troops, victorious and triumphant, surging in irresistible masses across the smoke-filled battle-field in hot pursuit of their routed enemy, but foes invisible to one another plugging away, using scientific calculations to attain their ends!"

"But the picturesque is now more extraordinary than ever, mon ami," put in Chase. "Think of the firework displays! See!—there is a trifling manifestation of their possibilities before us!"

A red signal rocket had suddenly shot up, illuminating the surroundings with a strange, lurid glow. Then a white and a blue flare followed it into the sky.

"You are quite right, Chase," assented the art student. "Ah, how that transforms the appearance of the landscape! Now it suggests a wonderfully imaginative picture. Hello!—going?"

Chase was already on the way. His two companions followed him, and as the three descended the stone steps every sound of voice or movement was weirdly increased in volume by the confining walls.

Don Hale's thoughts were still on the noise which had reached his ears. It vaguely conveyed to his mind an impression that others besides themselves were in the ancient château—an unpleasant reflection, conjuring up visions of unseen eyes watching them from the gloomy shadows.

By this time the somberness and depressing air which everywhere lurked within the walls of the Château de Morancourt had affected all three alike—each was longing to get out in the open air.

Therefore, after stepping from the tower, the Red Cross men made only a brief inspection of the rooms on the upper floor, and these they found comported well with the general elegance of the rest of the structure.

At length the three started down the grand stairway, with Don Hale's flash-light guiding the way. Reaching the foot they crossed the hall and pushed aside the heavy curtains hanging at the entrance to the next apartment.

And at the very instant Don Hale passed the portal he gave utterance to a loud exclamation of surprise.

"Look, look!" he cried.

The others at once grasped the significance of his words. The rays of light were streaming over the chair with which Chase had collided, but the piece of furniture was not in the place they had seen it last.

"Great Julius Cæsar!" blurted out Chase.

"Strange—strange!" murmured Dunstan.

"Now maybe you won't think I was right!" exclaimed the aviator's son. "Somebody must have bumped into that chair, Monsieur Manning, and knocked it over."

"What other explanation could there be?" agreed Dunstan.

"Which means to say that we haven't been the only prowlers in the De Morancourt palace to-night," muttered Chase, his voice betraying a most uncomfortable state of mind.

"No."

The proof was conclusive—there could be no question about it: some person or persons had been in that very room while the ambulanciers were up in the tower. Now there was, indeed, something quite startling in this thought. Who could the other, or others, have been? What was their object in entering? And did they still linger in the château?

For a perceptible interval of time the boys stood in silence. The weirdness and loneliness of the situation, with only a narrow band of light between them and the deepest gloom, intensified a curious tingling sensation which the discovery had produced in the nerves of each.

"What can it mean?" exclaimed Dunstan.

Don's light was swiftly flashing and criss-crossing in every direction, and not a single portion of the great apartment had escaped its glare when he declared:

"Fellows, there's certainly no one besides ourselves in this room."

"Can there be no hiding places?"

"It seems not."

"If there is any one within the sound of my voice let him step forward!" exclaimed Chase.

His voice, raised so as to penetrate far beyond, rang out with startling distinctness.

A moment of great expectancy followed.

No answer was received.

"Come on, fellows! Let's get busy," burst out Don, impatiently.

This proposition did not at all appeal to Chase Manning, but he made no protest, his fear of ridicule being greater than his fear of the unseen and the unknown.

So, instead of leaving the Château de Morancourt at once, as they had intended, the three ambulanciers began a tramp from one great hall to another, searching—searching. And though the "man-hunt," as Don Hale dubbed it, proved both interesting and exciting it brought forth no result.

After the lapse of three-quarters of an hour they were back in the apartment which they had first entered, and Dunstan thereupon straightened himself up, exclaiming:

"No use, boys—the other visitors have probably gone."

"I'm not so certain about that," declared Don.

"The only thing I'm certain about is that I intend to go," cried Chase, "and any one who tries to prevent it will have the privilege of bringing an assault and battery charge against me."

"The Château de Morancourt has been the center of too many stormy times for us to start another," chuckled the aviator's son.

Dunstan, standing by the big oak table, tapped upon its surface.

"Chase has stood it better than I thought," he rapped in the Morse code.

The answer he received was this:

"Yes, after a while he may surprise us all with his courage."

"You chaps are incorrigible," jerked out Chase. "I never knew before that woodpeckers kept at it both day and night."

So speaking, he made a break for the window.

Don and Dunstan trailed after him, and all lost no time in climbing outside.

"A jolly interesting experience, I call it!" exclaimed Don.

"Altogether too much so," grunted Chase, laconically.

"Suppose we return by a different route," said the art student.

They started along a wide carriage road which led between broad, level lawns dotted here and there with groups of statuary.

Before descending the slope on the opposite side of the hill, the three, with a common impulse, halted to take a last look at the ancestral home of the De Morancourts looming up against the moonlit sky.

"Maybe I wouldn't give a whole lot to know who was the second bumper into that chair!" declared Don.

"Not any more than the rest of us," said Dunstan dryly. "But there's no earthly chance of our ever knowing."

"Of course not," snapped Chase. "Just add it to the list of things one might as well forget."

It was very delightful out there in the midst of the big park, with the moon and stars shining so brightly overhead and beautiful vistas here and there opening out before their eyes, and even the desultory reports of the guns and the occasional sight of star-shells rising heavenward contributed a peculiar sort of charm to the situation. The ambulanciers, busily conversing, lingered longer than they had intended.

Suddenly, Don Hale, breaking off in the middle of a sentence, blurted out loudly:

"I say, fellows, I say—just gaze at that!"

## CHAPTER IX

### THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW

Dunstan and Chase, startled, faced him.

"Well, what's the latest sensation?" cried Chase.

"Didn't you see it?"

"See what?" queried Dunstan, excitedly.

"A light—a light flashing in one of the windows of the château."

"A light flashing in one of the windows!"

"Yes, yes; as sure as I'm standing here I saw a streak of light."

Although neither Dunstan nor Chase had observed it they were by no means incredulous. If some one had been in the château before, why not now?

There was something very strange—very mysterious in the whole affair. To the minds of the Red Cross men it became quite clear that the person, or persons, had known of their presence in the building and purposely kept out of their way, though for what reason, of course, none could conjecture.

"And so the adventure continues!" exclaimed Chase, rather slowly.

"Curious—curious indeed!" murmured Dunstan.

Don Hale's eyes were dilated with excitement and interest.

"Yes, sir, I just happened to catch it!" he cried. "A bright spot appeared for a single instant—then was gone. Shall we go back and investigate?"

"I certainly haven't the slightest intention of doing so," responded Chase, most emphatically. "Besides, what good would it do? Whoever is there would probably keep out of sight the same as they did before."

Don thereupon appealed to Dunstan.

The latter, however, shook his head.

"I reckon Chase is right," he replied.

Full of the ardor of youth and possessing in addition an adventurous spirit, the aviator's son, considerably disappointed, argued, pleaded and protested, and it is very probable that but for Chase Manning Dunstan would have willingly acceded to his wishes.

At length the youngest ambulancier, philosophically resigning himself to defeat, declared:

"Boys, I won't rest until I find out what it all means."

"Then I think you'll have to go without rest for a mighty long time," quoth Chase.

Long and earnestly the three stared toward the château, expecting and hoping to see a repetition of the light.

All the windows, however, remained but blank, gloomy patches of dark.

"Too little of this sort of thing is more than enough," declared Chase, presently. "It may take a German marmite or two to drive you chaps away, but not yours truly. En avant! Allons! Skip!"

"All right, mon generale," laughed Don. "Good-bye, old château!" He bowed and waved his hand toward the building. "When shall we four meet again?"

"I wonder!" said Dunstan, meditatively.

Down the gentle slope they went, soon discovering that the road, deeply shadowed in places by the thick woods on either hand, swung sharply around in a westerly direction. And not once during their journey through the great park could another glimpse of the Château de Morancourt be obtained.

The high ornamental wrought iron gate at the end of the carriage road was securely locked, but the ambulanciers, being both nimble and athletic, very easily climbed over the high stuccoed wall and lowered themselves into a rather narrow and dusty highway.

Dunstan promptly consulted his map, and having determined what route to follow, led the way.

To a stranger in the war zone that walk through the French countryside would undoubtedly have been a memorable one; for every now and again the booming of the artillery increased in violence, the sky flared with strange lights and more than once the ears of the ambulanciers caught the sinister scream of a shell; but familiarity with such things had served to dull the boys' sense of danger.

A battery to the north suddenly started into action, fired a number of rounds with tremendous rapidity, then relapsed into silence.

"We are living in a great age," declared Dunstan.

"It is certainly a little grating to some," said Chase.

A half hour's journey through a devastated country brought the Red Cross men to a little one-street village.

During their sojourn in northern France both Don and Dunstan had seen many ruined towns and villages, but in none was the destruction so complete as here. The pale moonlight streaming over this once peaceful little hamlet revealed indescribable havoc. Some buildings had been blown to pieces; of others but a few bits of jagged wall remained; almost everywhere piles of débris littered the ground and enormous shell-holes lined the disused road. This village was indeed a forlorn and melancholy-looking place. Not a sign of life! Not a sound to indicate the presence of other human beings. And yet, as the steady footfalls of the three Americans rang out on the cobbled pave, an animal scurrying into view from behind a wall dashed across their path. They had an instantaneous view of a pair of gleaming yellow eyes turned inquiringly toward them. Then the animal continued its wild course along the road, to disappear presently around the bend.

"Poor cat! What an eventful existence it must have had!" commented Dunstan. "Just think of the sensations the creature probably experienced when its intellectual superiors were pelting this place with shells!"

"From the looks of things one might suppose that nothing else escaped alive," remarked Don, walking across the street in order to gaze upon a conspicuous sign placed on the front of a tottering wall.

"Cave de Refuge"

"An echo of something that has passed!" said Dunstan. "No doubt at one time the cave, as the French call a cellar, served a very useful purpose. Allons—allons!"

Turning the bend, the three unexpectedly came upon a huge camion[9] resting on its side, the bluish-gray shadow of its massive form streaking fantastically across the road.

"Another symbol of the twentieth century!" growled Chase.

There could be no question as to what had happened: three wheels and a part of the rear of the vehicle had been destroyed, and the days of that particular camion were over forever.

The Red Cross men gathered around the battered object, once so powerful, now so inert and powerless, and speculated as to the consequences which had followed its destruction. What had happened to the drivers? Was that camion a temporary monument marking the spot where some obscure heroes had fallen?

"That's another thing we'll never know," said Dunstan, thoughtfully, after Don had given expression to such reflections.

Even to the aviator's son and the art student, who had had many unusual experiences in the war zone, there was something very strange and unique in going through a village so absolutely devoid of life. The utter silence, the wreck and ruin about them, the ghostly lights and bluish shadows half revealing, half concealing the details, all seemed to impart an air of curious unreality to the scene.

Continuing on, the ambulanciers were often compelled to climb over piles of wreckage which stretched across the entire width of the street, and their feet occasionally kicked up fragments of shells. Toward the center of the village the destruction was even more complete, and yet, strangely enough, not far beyond a roofless, spireless little church stood a gray, stuccoed building almost intact. Across the façade was painted in bold, black letters:

"Au Cheval Noir
Café and Restaurant"

"By George! What a kind fate has hovered over that place!" cried Don.

"Don't worry. Old Mars will get it yet," rejoined Chase.

"From the sublime to the ridiculous—the Château de Morancourt and the Cheval Noir!" put in Dunstan. "Let us visit the place."

"Of course," laughed Don.

The boys had not the slightest difficulty in following out the plan, as there was no door to bar their progress. Don led the way inside; and the three had only advanced a few feet into the shadowy interior when they heard an animal scurrying rapidly about, and the next instant a dark form, but dimly seen in the gloom, dashed frantically across the floor, whisked out into the roadway and was gone.

"Hello!—that cat again!" exclaimed Dunstan. "We seem to be seriously disturbing the poor creature's peace of mind. Turn on the light, Don."

A click sounded; then the flash-light, cutting a passage through the darkness, fell across a number of chairs and tables.

"Remarkable!" exclaimed Dunstan. "Apparently not a thing disturbed!"

"Yes, sir, it looks just exactly as if the Cheval Noir was open and ready for business," declared Don.

"Too bad it isn't!" sighed Chase. "I'm just in the mood for a jolly big meal."

"Oh, garçon, a bifteck aux pommes! Des haricots blancs! Une tasse de café noir!" sang out Don.

"If you order any more beefsteak and potatoes, beans and coffee there's going to be a right lively disturbance in the Cheval Noir," chuckled the art student. "I didn't realize before how hungry I was. Be seated, Messieurs. The treat is on me."

Thereupon the ambulanciers dropped into chairs which were ranged alongside a marble-topped table.

The interior of the Cheval Noir was decidedly typical of French inns. Facing the door stood a long counter, and its metal portions gleamed, sparkled and shone as Don's light played across their surfaces. Even the big clock which had once solemnly ticked off the passage of time hung in its place on the wall behind the counter.

"Another unusual experience!" drawled Dunstan. "How odd it is to be sitting here, monarchs of all we survey, and yet with nothing but a cozy inviting appearance to give us cheer. Say what you will, fellows, an air of comfort pervades these places that our up-to-date establishments in the new world sometimes seem to lack."

"And by way of compensation they also lack the cobwebs and the dirt," said Chase, dryly. "I can just imagine this inn in the heyday of its existence. Around these tables were probably seated a noisy, gesticulating lot of peasants, and chickens, enjoying the rights of democracy, wandered in and out. Oh, yes—'twas the simple life, all right, with the emphasis on the simple."

"Ecoutez—ecoutez!" broke in Don suddenly.

"But why should we listen, mon ami?" demanded Dunstan.

"Another sensation, I suppose!" cried Chase.

"I heard footsteps just outside."

"By all that's wonderful—footsteps in a deserted village!" cried Dunstan.

"Yes—yes." The aviator's son raised his voice. "Hello—hello! Qui est la?"

"Entrez—entrez, Monsieur, or Messieurs!" exclaimed Dunstan.

The Red Cross men did not wait to see whether their invitation would be accepted or not but, rising, made a concerted and rather precipitous rush for the door.

Before they had reached it, however, a tall dark form suddenly loomed up in the opening, and the rays of Don's light fell full on the face of a poilu.

Rather startled at being received in such an unceremonious fashion, the soldier abruptly halted, then, recovering himself, exclaimed in a deep, musical voice:

"Bon soir, Messieurs! From your accent I should judge that I have the honor of addressing Americans."

"Yes," laughed Don. "We belong to the Red Cross."

The man was attired in the uniform of a private, but it forcibly struck the aviator's son that not since he had come to France had he encountered a private of such distinguished mien and bearing. The Frenchman, tall and dark, wore a pointed Van Dyke beard. His features were aquiline; his eyes sharp and piercing. It could be readily seen at a glance that he was not one to be treated in an offhand and jocular fashion.

"We have been taking possession of the Cheval Noir," exclaimed Dunstan. "Will you not enter and keep us company for a while?"

"Quite willingly," assented the poilu, stepping inside.

The three reseated themselves at the table, while the soldier, pulling out a chair at the end, made himself comfortable.

"I suppose you are off duty, and, as a relaxation from your dangerous work, have been taking a stroll about the country?" he said, politely.

"Quite correct, Monsieur," replied Don.

Then the newcomer, in a suave and polished manner, began to make many inquiries concerning their particular section of the Red Cross, as well as about their personal experiences at the front. Finally Don, in his turn, put a question to the poilu.

"Monsieur," he asked, "have you ever seen the Château de Morancourt?"

"Who in this locality has not?" responded the other, laconically.

"We had a very curious experience there to-night," pursued Don.

"Indeed! May I inquire the nature of it?"

"Bien sure, Monsieur."

Thereupon Don began a spirited description of the puzzling event, to all of which the Frenchman, though by no means exhibiting the interest which the boy had expected, listened with respectful attention. At his conclusion the soldier laughed dryly and commented:

"As you say, quite a curious experience—the kind which would have a tendency to jar one's nerves. But what is strange and weird in the darkness and mystery of the night becomes by day the ordinary and the commonplace. How is it, mes Americaines, that you came to visit the château?"

"Because of the mystery," replied Don.

"The mystery?"

"Yes. Haven't you heard that a very valuable collection of paintings and other things completely disappeared from the place, and that so far no one has been able to discover the slightest trace of them?"

"And did you think you might help to solve such a perplexing problem?" exclaimed the soldier, half banteringly. "Ah, les Americaines are quite wonderful! And I might remark, en passant, that you ran a very great risk—a very great risk indeed. It is undoubtedly true that the Germans are keeping a watchful eye on the Château de Morancourt. But you probably will not venture to go there again?"

"Of course we shall," laughed Don.

"And the reason?"

"Possibly we might be able to find some clue after all."

"You weigh curiosity against danger and decide on the former, although knowing that the château may be destroyed at any moment?"

"Yes, Monsieur," said Don.

All the while the aviator's son had been wondering to what regiment this very distinguished-looking soldier of France might belong, but just as he was about to make some diplomatic inquiries the poilu rose to his feet, saying:

"I am glad to have had the opportunity of meeting you. Now I must say good-bye. Perhaps the hazards of war may bring us together again, but if not, allow me to take this occasion of wishing you continued immunity from shot and shell, as well as a safe return to your native country."

And then, after shaking hands with each in turn, he quickly walked outside.

"Quite an odd character!" pronounced Dunstan.

"And a very gentlemanly one," said Don.

"A little too high-toned for me," declared Chase.

The ambulanciers rose in a body, and presently, upon reaching the road, saw the poilu headed in the direction of the château, and, strangely enough, the cat was close at his heels.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Dunstan. "Not very complimentary to us, eh? We terrified the poor cat, while it follows the Frenchman like a creditor. I'd like to know where he's bound."

"To the Château de Morancourt, of course," drawled Chase.

"What makes you think so?"

"Take it from me, that, while he didn't say very much, Don's tale impressed him a whole lot—enough, I'll wager, to make him 'weigh curiosity against danger and decide on the former.'"

"That may be a pretty good guess," agreed Don.

The three idly watched the Frenchman until he had disappeared, and then, refreshed by their rest, began walking at a lively pace along the road.

The outskirts of the ruined village were soon reached and passed.

From the summit of a rather high hill they stopped to gaze upon an extensive panorama of the surrounding country. The object which excited their greatest interest was the upper portion of the wrecked tower of the ancient château, which rose, a somber, grim patch, just above an irregular line of shadowy and mysterious-looking trees.

"How fine it is!" exclaimed Don, enthusiastically.

"The only thing it lacks is a few spectral lights," declared Chase.

"And I have no doubt if we waited here long enough they'd appear," returned Dunstan.

The Americans turned away from the view, which even the growling of the distant guns and the war rockets could not rob of a peaceful grandeur, and continued their march.

Very soon a singularly picturesque and interesting scene appeared before their eyes. On the slopes of the opposite ridges was an immense encampment of soldiers—a little tented city, as it were. Row after row of tents stood out pale and ghost-like in the moonlight, and from innumerable camp-fires hazy columns of smoke floated upward, to lose themselves against the steely-blue tones of the sky. Here and there tethered horses, no doubt belonging to the artillery, could be seen, though but few of the poilus were visible.

"Charming!" exclaimed Dunstan. "Perhaps that is the very place to which our soldier visitor belongs."

"Perhaps," agreed Chase. "But I'm not going to do any more wondering to-night."

"At any rate we have a story to tell that will set all the fellows at the section to wondering," laughed the aviator's son.

Down the incline they went, branching off about a quarter of an hour later into a military highway, though, owing to the clearness of the night, there was little traffic moving in either direction. Now and again, however, they heard the steady, rhythmic tramp of marching feet and encountered small bodies of troops passing along. The moonlight glistened on rifles and accouterments, and its rays were strong enough to disclose dogged, grave expressions on the faces of these poilus, some of whom, perhaps before very long, would take their places on the firing line.

A railway ran by the side of the road, and occasionally miniature locomotives and trains journeyed past, the puffing of the engines blending with numerous other sounds which came over the air.

The ambulanciers did not hurry, and as every sentry stationed along the road brought them to a halt by a demand to see their passes, the hour was quite late when they finally saw the picturesque outlines of the Hotel de la Palette looming up in the distance.

"We've had quite a day of it," quoth Don.

"We've had quite a night of it," said Chase.

"We've had some experiences we shall not forget in a hurry," declared the art student.

Arriving at the section headquarters the three found that during their absence a high-explosive shell had torn a big hole in the eastern wall of the structure, whereupon Dunstan remarked, reflectively:

"Well, there's certainly nothing dull about life in the war zone!"

## CHAPTER X

### THE BIG GUN

Several days passed, during which Don, Dunstan and Chase saw duty at the outpost. For the most part of the time the sector remained comparatively calm, though occasionally the big guns on both sides pounded away in a fashion that suggested the beginning of a real curtain of fire.

Don and the young chap from Maine were now working together on number eight, Dunstan and "Tiny" Mason having been assigned by Chief Wendell to take charge of ambulance number three.

All of the Red Cross drivers mentioned made several trips to the field hospital, but on none of their runs did they encounter any very thrilling adventures.

Don Hale had not forgotten the artillery officer's invitation to visit the battery; so when the day on which he was to be en repos rolled around he declared his intention of putting the plan into immediate execution.

"Not for me," drawled Chase. "I'm going to read all day and forget there is such a thing as war."

Dunstan, on the other hand, was decidedly enthusiastic.

"Sure, I'm going," he declared.

"Bully for you!" cried Don. "Hooray! We'll have a dandy time."

Immediately after breakfast the two left the Hotel de la Palette, and in due course reached that section of the country where the battery was located. By the aid of information which a sentry kindly gave them the boys discovered Lieutenant D'Arraing conversing with the crew of one of the big guns located behind a group of trees. His eyes brightened at their approach.

"Ah, bon jour, mes Americaines!" he cried, in cordial accents. "Your visit is very well timed indeed—unless you have already run into so much danger that you do not care to risk any more."

"Try us, and see," said Don, smilingly.

"I will take you at your word. One of our airplane observers brought in a report to the effect that he has very strong suspicions that the Germans have erected a wireless station on a certain building behind their trenches."

"Aha!" exclaimed Dunstan, interestedly.

"Of course we cannot permit any such liberty; so the captain and I shall shortly be off to an observation post, in order to spot the bursts of smoke from the shells when the work of putting that wireless plant out of commission is begun."

Don Hale's eyes sparkled. Hopefully and with much anticipation he awaited the lieutenant's next words, and they were exactly what he wanted to hear.

"I should be pleased to have you come along."

"Well, we'll be mighty glad to do so," cried the boy, delightedly.

"No mistake about that," chimed in Dunstan.

"Good! But I must warn you in advance that there is a very grave element of risk."

"That doesn't scare us a bit," laughed Don.

"It is settled, then. Here, let me show you." Lieutenant D'Arraing unrolled a military map and spread it out on the top of a row of bushes. Then calling the boys' attention to a numbered pencil mark on its surface, he added: "This is where our observer locates the wireless station of the Boches."

Don and Dunstan studied the map with great interest.

"How extraordinarily detailed it is!" cried the former.

"Yes; the position of every clump of trees and even of single ones is indicated—in fact such small things as hedges have not been omitted. Our game is very exacting, you know."

To the ordinary eye the map was quite confusing, for besides the multiplicity of typographical details there were numerous red and blue lines branching off from various points.

"What do they mean?" queried Don.

"The location of certain batteries and their range," explained the artillery officer. "Now, kindly step this way."

About fifty feet further on the three came to a halt before a rounded elevation, on a mound of earth.

"Entrez, Messieurs," said Lieutenant D'Arraing, with a smile—he pointed to a dark, gloomy-looking opening at the base,—"and I'll introduce you to one of our special favorites—'Le Grand Pere.' Presently it will be paying some attention to the wireless over yonder."

"Goodness gracious!—there's concealment for you!" cried Don.

Cautiously the boy stepped down into the entrance, in a moment or two finding himself face to face with the breech of a big gun. The weapon, its muzzle projecting through another opening at the opposite end of the mound, was well protected by a heavily-timbered roof covered with earth. Even in the underground retreat the polished surfaces of the steel monster caught and reflected every stray beam of light.

"'Le Grand Pere' has done his full share of service," declared the French officer, when all were standing inside.

Then, to show how easily the piece of mechanism could be operated, he raised, lowered and moved the muzzle from side to side by means of little wheels.

"It seems almost like perfection," commented the aviator's son, as he carefully examined the "elements," as the figures on the gun's-sighting apparatus are called. "And yet I suppose experts are continually trying to make improvements."

"Yes; science is insatiable in its efforts to advance," said Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Here—look through this!"

He swung back the big breech-block, and Don, sighting through the long tube, saw a circular spot of brilliant daylight at the other end.

"You will notice that the inside is rifled," continued the lieutenant. "On the driving band of the projectiles are spiral grooves, which of course exactly coincide with those in the gun, and that is what gives the shell its rotation. Scientific calculations of the density of the atmosphere and pressure of the wind, and the use of trigonometry to find the range all combine to enable the gunners to fire with marvelous accuracy."

"What is your chief work—trying to put the opposing batteries out of commission?" queried Dunstan.

"By no means; though we should not miss an opportunity to do so. The main objective of the artillery, however, is to support the troops, to prepare the way for infantry charges and to prevent the enemy from bringing up supplies and reserves—in fact, to harass them in every way possible."

"This seems to be really a war of big guns," commented Don.

"Quite so!" assented the military man. He laughed. "Now, this is a two-story house. Below, and to one side, is our rest and recreation room. You may take a look if you wish."

The ambulanciers did wish, and a few moments later had clambered down a ladder to a subterranean room many feet underground. Straw was plentifully strewn about the floor, and several of the gun crew were lounging about at their ease.

"A chap doesn't have to bother much about shells in here," said Don.

"No," replied the lieutenant. "As a foundation the roof has iron girders and cement beams. Over these is about a foot of closely-packed earth. Next in order come a number of heavy logs, then earth again. And as a finishing touch there is a second series of logs and a layer of cement, topped off with another generous supply of good old terra firma."

"My, how safe I feel!" chirped Don.

"The life of an artilleryman is not so dangerous," admitted the officer; "for the moment things begin to get a bit too hot they can desert the gun pits, and in so doing are not obliged to cross any open spaces. One dive into the tunnel, and the cannoneers are safe! Passageways connect the various underground chambers, and telephones are installed wherever necessary."

Just as the concluding words fell from the officer's lips a terrific booming report made both of the ambulanciers give a perceptible start, though the gun crew about them gave no indication of even having beard it.

"A few high-explosives being dispatched without our compliments!" remarked the lieutenant. "Come, mes Americaines, and you can see one of the big guns in action."

One after another the three climbed nimbly up the ladder, and on emerging into the open saw a cloud of smoke hovering in the still air some twenty-five yards away.

"No wonder it made such an awful crack!" cried Don.

"Better stuff some of this in your ears," counseled Lieutenant D'Arraing. He presented to each a wad of raw cotton. "The concussions are pretty severe on ear-drums."

The Red Cross men thanked him and promptly followed his advice. In a moment they came to a hedge, behind which a gun crew, with remarkable precision and swiftness, was loading an enormous howitzer mounted on tractor-wheels.

"It takes seven cannoneers and a corporal to fire this gun," explained Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Each has a particular duty to perform, and when the projectile is ready for its long journey, the corporal gives the signal to fire, the lanyard is pulled, and what happens you will presently witness with your own eyes. Give her all the room you can, boys."

Don and Dunstan, highly interested, stepped back. It was a very wonderful thing, the ambulanciers thought, to be actual eye-witnesses of such a proceeding—indeed it made Don Hale almost feel as if he himself was an actual participant in the greatest war history has ever known. How many times had he heard the terrifying screech and scream of approaching shells and the frightful concussion which brought them to an end! And here was a projectile about to be launched off into space toward some point which none of them could see, but where, undoubtedly, were human beings who might be destroyed by its withering blast.

These reflections were abruptly terminated; for the corporal was speaking at the 'phone.

"Yes; ready to fire," he said.

Then came an instant's pause.

"Now!" thought Don, instinctively placing his hands to his ears.

"Fire!" commanded the corporal.

"FIRE!" COMMANDED THE CORPORAL.

The lanyard was pulled.

Instantly there followed a spurt of gleaming flame and a nerve-racking report which made the earth tremble; and as the great gun recoiled from the shock a thick cloud of smoke rolled upward and spread out among the trees.

Although prepared for the concussion, Don Hale felt almost as though his ear-drums had been burst by its terrific force.

But he almost forgot that an instant later, in his eagerness to watch the crew at work, for the breech of the gun was open ready for another projectile.

About sixteen seconds after the first shot had been fired another left the muzzle, and then came a series, the terrific crashes and reverberations following one another so fast that Don Hale found the strain almost too severe to stand. He gave a sigh of relief when, after fourteen high-explosive shells had been hurled into the enemy's line, the red bursts of flame and clouds of smoke abruptly ceased, and the destroying monster, after its last recoil, sank back motionless into place.

"That means the demolition of a portion of a German front-line trench," exclaimed Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Ah! another weapon is taking up the refrain."

Somewhere in the forest, not so very far away, the boom of a second big gun was heard; and this kept steadily firing until fifteen more shells had been sent toward the east, then a third went into action.

"Whew! It would take some time for a chap to get used to all that awful racket," gasped Don.

"Will my head ever stop aching!" murmured Dunstan.

"Pretty hard, I know, when one is not accustomed to it," put in Lieutenant D'Arraing, with a smile. "Now we shall have to look. When a man hits another he is apt to get a blow in return."

"Well, we are in a good place," said Don, his eye on the mouth of an opening leading to an abri.

The ambulanciers waited expectantly, and, sure enough, but a few moments had elapsed when shells were crashing both to the right and left of the battery, but fortunately far enough away to make a dash into the cave unnecessary.

When the flurry was over the lieutenant remarked:

"Come along. I'll introduce you to Captain Langlois."

As the three followed a narrow lane through the woods the reports of various guns of the battery echoed and reëchoed among the hills, the staccato rattle and bang of the lighter field-pieces blending in with the deep and solemn booming of the bigger guns.

They soon reached a battery of the former type, also so well concealed from view by various devices that they might easily have passed by without noting its presence.

"The eighteen pounders!" shouted Lieutenant D'Arraing in Don's ear. "Each shell contains three hundred bullets. They can be fired with very great rapidity."

The ambulancier did not need to be told this—the evidence was right before him. Terrific crash after terrific crash, following a lurid sheet of flame and a spurt of smoke, was coming from each field-piece; and after every shot the empty shells were discharged and fresh projectiles slipped into place.

"Did you ever see such wicked and vindictive-looking little chaps!" exclaimed Don, yelling with all his might, so as to make himself heard above the din. "They seem to be lashing out in perfect fury. Somewhere somebody is being deluged with a hail of lead."

"And every crash we hear may mean a tragedy some miles off," shouted Dunstan, gravely.

"The horse artillery is very useful," put in the lieutenant, using his hands as a megaphone. "When the poilus 'go over the top' they are the guns which thunder along the roads and fields, to give them support and encouragement. They also help to prepare the way for infantry charges by smashing to pieces the barbed-wire entanglements in front of the trenches."

Conversation under the circumstances was a very difficult matter; so the party hurried away, though wherever they went it seemed impossible to get beyond the roar of the batteries.

In a large spacious dugout they found Captain Langlois, with a couple of other officers, poring over a large map of the sector. He was a middle-aged man whose black hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray. He greeted the Americans pleasantly, though he appeared a little dubious as to the advisability of allowing them to run the risk of a journey to the observation post. A few diplomatic words from Lieutenant D'Arraing, however, soon straightened out matters, and he gave his consent.

"Kindly take seats, Messieurs," he said. "I shall be ready in a few moments."

The dugout, besides being furnished with several chairs and a table, had a number of bunks ranged around the walls. Then, of course, military maps of various kinds and sizes were prominently in evidence on all sides.

While they were waiting for the Captain, Don began to tell Lieutenant D'Arraing about their interesting experience at the Château de Morancourt. The artillery lieutenant listened attentively, from time to time shaking his head in a puzzled fashion.

"Very mystifying, to say the least!" he exclaimed. "However, I've heard some of the boys speak of the soldier you met. I believe he is on an extended leave of absence and for some reason or other which no one seems to understand makes his home at the café and restaurant, with a cat as his sole companion."

"What!—actually living at the Cheval Noir!" cried Don. "And he never said a word about it. How is that for something queer, Dunstan Farrington?"

"It certainly is," admitted the art student. "He was so polite, too. I wonder why he didn't give us an introduction to the cat."

"The poilus around here regard him as an odd sort of a chap," volunteered the artillery officer.

"By George, I'm beginning to scent another mystery!" declared Don. "And I won't be satisfied until——"

"Messieurs, I am ready."

The voice of the captain, breaking in upon Don's words, caused them all to rise to their feet.

Trooping behind the erect form of the veteran military man into the bright glare of out-of-doors, Don Hale reflected, with a little chuckle of delight, that it is not given to many to accompany artillery officers on such an expedition.

## CHAPTER XI

### THE OBSERVATION POST

A little later the members of the party, preceded by a telephone man, were making their way with the utmost caution through a field of wheat. With a soft blue sky filled with fleecy clouds overhead, the waving grain close about them, and the pleasant scent which growing vegetation exhales, their situation suggested anything but warfare. Undismayed by the grumblings of the great guns and the whistling of the shells which soared overhead, larks flew unconcernedly about, and frequently their chatter or song was wafted over the balmy air.

Here and there ugly shell-holes were encountered, and very often the operator, fearing that the wires which led to the observation post might have been damaged, stopped to examine them. The situation was decidedly thrilling, and the aviator's son did not mind admitting, to himself at least, that his nerves were at a very keen tension.

To the east, hazy in the distance, a German observation balloon hovered in the air, swinging lazily in the gentle currents. It wasn't altogether pleasant to think that the observers in the basket might have their powerful glasses leveled on that particular spot in the wheat field across which they were now passing. And very likely, too, there were men posted at various observation stations who were keeping a watchful eye open for just the sort of thing they were now engaged upon.

It was quite natural, therefore, that whenever the boy heard the awesome scream of a shell a little louder than usual his heart beat faster.

Going this way and that and concealing their movements in every possible manner, the five reached a deep trench, which zig-zagged across a field absolutely bare of vegetation. One by one they leaped into it, and, in single file, continued steadily along.

"Don't forget to keep your heads down," cautioned Lieutenant D'Arraing.

"Never fear!" said Don. "We won't do anything to bring about an inglorious end to the expedition."

Presently the trench led upward over the slope of a hill, and when the top was reached turned sharply to the left. A few yards further on, around a bend, the boys discovered the observation post, roofed over with corrugated iron. Right beside it was a dugout.

"Here we are," spoke up Lieutenant D'Arraing. "And if I am not mistaken our being here won't be a very good thing for the Boches."

Not far away, close to the parapet of the trench, stood a row of bushes. With a wave of his hand, indicating these, the captain exclaimed:

"I think it will be safe for you, boys, to take a look from there."

While the operator by the entrance to the dugout was adjusting the telephone to the wire Don and Dunstan, both provided with field-glasses, cautiously moved forward, with the lieutenant by their side.

"Now we are ready for the fireworks!" muttered Don Hale, grimly.

He carefully pushed aside the bushes and saw stretching before him a steep slope, with a wide valley at the bottom and ranges of hills beyond, the summits cutting clearly against masses of white clouds. The wooded hills and bluish distance seen here and there between breaks made a very charming picture in the bright, clear sunlight; but it was not upon these features that the eyes of the aviator's son were intently fixed, for even with the unaided eye he could make out the lines of trenches, both French and German, running in a curiously irregular fashion across the near and far slopes. To the south a few faint grayish spots scattered here and there, inside the French lines, indicated what remained of a little hamlet. In the entire valley Don could not discover a single tree which had escaped the ravages of warfare.

"Do you see a spur on the hillside directly opposite?" asked Lieutenant D'Arraing, who, standing by the side of Don, was peering through a pair of field-glasses.

"Yes—yes," said Don eagerly.

"Take a look at it through your binocular."

"TAKE A LOOK AT IT."

The aviator's son placed the instrument to his eyes. The spur which the artillery officer had indicated instantly became strong and clear.

"Now swing your glass to the left," commanded the lieutenant, "and stop when you come to a little whitish patch almost hidden by trees."

"I have it," exclaimed Don.

"I think you will find in a few moments that our battery has it, too," commented the other, dryly. "You might not suspect it, but that insignificant little light spot is a part of the side of a building, and on that building has been erected——"

"The wireless plant," supplemented Don, eagerly.

By this time the telephone operator, with the receivers attached to his ears, was ready to transmit the captain's orders to the battery, while the senior officer in the observation post had his glasses leveled on the distance.

"How strange it is," reflected Don Hale, "that people some three miles away are moving unconcernedly about a certain building, totally unaware of the fact that within a moment or two they will be exposed to the most terrible danger!"

He lowered his binocular, for the captain was speaking.

"First piece," he commanded.

"First piece," echoed the telephone operator, speaking into the transmitter.

"Direction: wireless station; range five thousand yards."

The message was flashed over the wire, and a few moments later word came that the battery was in readiness.

"Fire!" commanded the captain.

That was an extraordinarily interesting moment to Don Hale.

The operator had scarcely ceased speaking when, from the hill to the rear, came the report of one of the howitzers, and as the projectile, describing a parabola, passed overhead, making the same screeching, screaming sound with which he had become so familiar, Don once more directed the glasses upon the wireless station.

Breathlessly, he waited.

"Ah-h-h-h!"

A long-drawn-out exclamation came from his lips.

A cloud of black smoke suddenly shot up in the distance, completely shutting from view the object upon which he had his eyes so intently fixed. A few seconds later came a faint, dull boom.

What had happened?

Don could not tell. But, with fascinated attention, the boy watched the swirling black mass rolling along the surface of the ground and spreading slowly upward and outward, until it suggested the rounded form of a huge tree.

"Confound it!—wasted!" growled the captain.

"Too short!" murmured the lieutenant.

"Plus fifty yards; augment by thirty minutes," called out the captain.

As the man at the telephone transmitted the order the lieutenant explained to the interested ambulanciers just what the captain's words meant.

"Plus means to increase the range and less to shorten it," he said; "augment tells the cannoneer that he must aim further to the right and 'diminish' means further to the left. The sighting apparatus of the gun is, of course, accurately graduated."

Another roar, and a second projectile was on its way.

Again an inky column, with lashing, tossing edges, spurted above the tree tops. And the aviator's son could instantly see that another shell had been wasted; for the bit of wall now gleamed brightly against a background of smoke.

The captain, lowering his glass, gave voluble expression to his annoyance and disgust; then, swinging around toward the telephonist, he commanded:

"The same elements, less thirty. Fire!"

"Same elements, less thirty," repeated the operator. "Fire!"

Boom!

The confining hills flung the thunderous echoes in all directions. The same whirr and scream overhead again—and for a third time Don Hale saw where the projectile had landed.

Still the wireless station had evidently not been touched.

"H'm—h'm!" murmured Captain Langlois. "Pas mal—pas mal; not bad—not bad! Same elements, less fifteen. Fire!"

And a few moments later the light spot flashed from view, completely obliterated by another enormous and sinister-looking cloud of smoke.

For a second time the intensely interested Don Hale was in doubt as to the result, yet in another moment he realized that the artillerymen had been successful; for the captain, with a grunt indicative of satisfaction, faced Lieutenant D'Arraing, declaring:

"Enfin, Monsieur le Lieutenant, c'est fait!"

"At last it is done!" murmured Don, translating the captain's words.

"And I guess he's about right," exclaimed Dunstan.

Sure enough—when the slowly-disappearing smoke had lifted the ambulanciers saw that the portion of the building they had looked upon before was no longer in sight, and both could very readily imagine that where it had stood there was nothing but unsightly piles of wreckage and a huge shell-hole.

"As I expected!" remarked Captain Langlois. "If that really was a wireless plant it won't be sending out any more electric waves."

"I should say not," said Don, a little soberly.

"Inscribe the elements," commanded the captain.

"Inscribe the elements," repeated the operator, speaking to the man at the battery end of the wire.

Don could not help reflecting upon the methodical and businesslike manner of the whole proceeding. There was nothing to indicate that either of the officers held any feeling of hate or vindictiveness toward the foe; their attitude was rather that of men who having had important work to do are glad of its successful accomplishment.

"Do you know what 'inscribe the elements' means?" asked the lieutenant, breaking in upon the boy's thoughts.

"I think I do, Monsieur le Lieutenant," replied Don. "The officer in command of the battery is to write on a chart the exact elements in order that they may have the information in case they should ever be required to fire at the same point again."

"Precisely so," said the other, with a smile.

The ambulanciers still kept their eyes upon the German trenches, as shells were now occasionally exploding here and there. After a short time, due to the steady increase in the bombardment, dark and light puffs of smoke, according to the character of the shell, were rising continually into view. Vaguely suggestive of the surf, ever tumbling in fleecy foam upon the beach, were these appearing and disappearing smoke clouds softened by atmosphere distance.

"The first part of our work is completed; now for the second!" remarked Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Far to the right, where you see that little leafless tree sticking up, we intend to get the range of the Boche trenches."

"But the French and German lines look mighty close right there," declared Don. "Isn't there danger of a shell falling short and perhaps striking too near our front?"

"Yes; but we don't expect such a thing to happen," put in the captain, smilingly.

"I'm mighty glad I don't have to give directions for the firing," said Dunstan.

"I think the French can be mighty glad of that, too," came from Don.

He chuckled faintly.

The captain was now giving the range to the telephone operator, who, in his turn, transmitted the order.

"Fire!" commanded the artillery officer.

Just as interestedly as before the ambulanciers waited to see the result of the shot.

The whistle of the projectile had been lost to the ear when a geyser of smoke rose considerably beyond and to the left of the tree.

"That won't do at all," grumbled Captain Langlois.

He and the lieutenant held a consultation, studying the map, and having come to a decision the gunners to the rear were presently informed of the necessary readjustments in the range.

A second shot went astray; so did a third. But each was just a little nearer the mark. The fourth struck to the right, but so close that the smoke floated in front of the solitary tree and partially obscured its form.

"As you see, mes Americaines, it is only a question of time when we get what we wish," commented Lieutenant D'Arraing.

"I reckon the Germans learned that long ago," said Don.

The fifth shot proved the artillery officer's confidence to be based upon good reasons; for when the smoke of the shell-burst began to clear away the powerful field-glasses revealed the fact that a considerable portion of a snake-like line of sand-bags running across the slope had completely disappeared.

"Which means, of course, a very disastrous occurrence—from their point of view!" exclaimed Dunstan, with a long breath.

"I don't like to think about it," declared Don.

The ambulanciers, not wishing to trespass too much upon the kindness and courtesy of the French officers, soon decided that it was time for them to leave. Accordingly, they expressed their warm thanks and appreciation of the opportunity which had been afforded them.

Very politely, both the captain and lieutenant declared that it had given them pleasure to extend the privilege.

"Now, cher amis, what are you going to do?" asked the lieutenant.

"I wonder if we couldn't visit the front-line trenches?" cried Don, with a sudden idea.

"I see no reason why you cannot. Red Cross men as a rule are accorded far more privileges than newspaper correspondents." Taking out a small pad from his pocket, Lieutenant D'Arraing scribbled a few lines, then, handing the sheet of paper to the aviator's son, added: "If you should happen to be stopped en route this will probably smooth the way."

Bidding good-bye to the obliging artillerymen, Don and Dunstan set out, headed toward a distant point where scarcely any firing was taking place. They very soon reached a boyau, or communication trench, which, curving and twisting in all manner of ways, led toward the firing-line, and into this they turned. Soldiers were going and coming, and many times the Americans received a pleasant word of greeting. Along that section of the front, as well as elsewhere, an astonishing number of transverse ditches had been dug, starting from about a mile behind the lines—indeed a veritable maze of passageways, so intricate and bewildering as to make it sometimes difficult to find one's way, cut across the earth, never running for many meters in the same direction. They were constructed in this manner so that the fragments of a shell exploding in the trench could travel only a very short distance, thus giving security to the poilus who occupied the adjoining sections.

Constant work, especially during rainy weather, was necessary in order to keep the ditches in repair. Supporting timbers often had to be added. Then, every now and again, enemy shells partially wrecked or destroyed considerable portions; and for the work of reconstruction or digging new trenches the services of soldiers housed in dugouts along the second or third lines were often called into requisition.

At many places all the labor was done under cover of darkness. Here the trenches were within easy view of the German observers, and had they discovered any signs of activity it would, of course, have meant a deluge of shells.

As the ambulanciers continued, very often hearing the ominous hum of bullets ripping past close overhead, they felt profoundly thankful for the protection the two feet of wall above their heads afforded.

At length, when Don and Dunstan arrived at the second line, or support trenches, an officer stepped from one of the crowded passageways, to command them peremptorily to halt. It is very likely, too, that he would just as peremptorily have ordered the two back but for Lieutenant D'Arraing's note.

"All right, mes Americaines," he said, after glancing over it. "You may proceed. The firing-line is only about one hundred yards from here. I presume you have never been so near the enemy before. Let me hope it is not your intention to pay them a visit."

"We couldn't be persuaded to," replied Don, with a smile.

"About how far apart are the trenches?" asked Dunstan, casually.

"In some places right along here only about twenty meters," was the startling answer.

"Great Cæsar! Only about sixty-five feet!" murmured Don.

The thought of being in such close proximity to the Germans thrilled and awed the aviator's son.

As the boys, after nodding a good-bye to the officer, tramped along the "duck walk," or slatted wooden flooring of the trench, they rather marveled at the seeming indifference of the silent soldiers whom they here and there encountered lounging idly about. None of them seemed to be paying the slightest attention to the projectiles. Turning into one of the front-line trenches, they found the blue-uniformed soldiers of France on the alert. Many of them were standing on a narrow little platform about a foot from the bottom of the excavation known as the "firing step." Some gazed earnestly through trench periscopes; others had their rifles resting across sand-bags or through openings in the breastworks. Still others held hand-grenades, ready to throw on the instant, while laid out within easy reach were rows of these deadly weapons.

The ambulanciers, slowly following the ramifications of the trench, discovered dugouts all along the rear wall, or parados, as it is called. These excavations were, of course, located to one side of the trenches and immediately below.

After traveling for some distance Don and Dunstan came upon another roofed-over observation post in which a young soldier was stationed. Beside him stood a mitrailleuse, its polished muzzle pointing straight ahead.

A curious uncanny silence hovered over the trench; no one was speaking; no one seemed to be paying any attention to the appearance of the Americans in their midst—all were playing the game of waiting with the utmost alertness. For that was the line which was guarding France from the invader; and probably graven in the heart of every soldier were the words made famous at Verdun:

"Ils ne passeront pas"—"They shall not pass."

"Sixty-five feet—sixty-five feet!" murmured Don, over and over again.

It scarcely seemed possible that only such a short distance beyond the parapet of the trench there were other grimly silent men standing side by side and perhaps having as their battle cry the slogan:

"On to Paris!"

"Isn't it wonderful to think, Dunstan, that we are really on the firing line!" said Don. "My, wouldn't I give a lot to look through one of these periscopes!"

Although the words were spoken almost in a whisper a soldier using one of the instruments overheard him.

"You may, mon garçon," he said, in an equally cautious tone.

"Merci, merci!—thank you!—thank you!" said Don.

Eagerly he placed his eye to the periscope.

What a thrill shot through the boy as the secrets of "No Man's Land" were revealed to him! Right in front of the trench stretched a maze of barbed wire entanglements, but every growing thing had been blasted, withered and shot to pieces. The trees that remained standing were gaunt, bare poles, and the ground all about looked as if some terrible convulsion of nature had upheaved and overturned it. Scarcely any of the forms bore a semblance to their original shape. Only a few yards away he could see the rim of a huge shell-crater, into the yawning depths of which a portion of the barbed wire had disappeared. Less than a hundred feet beyond stretched a yellow, muddy line of sand-bags, and right in front of these, extending out for some distance, were stakes driven into the ground and strung with innumerable wires.

"And not a sign of life!" murmured Don. "It just looks as if nothing ever did exist or could exist along this awful stretch of 'No Man's Land.'"

Dunstan now took his turn at the periscope, and presently having satisfied their curiosity the two thanked the obliging soldier and moved on.

During all this time the sharp cracking of rifles was continuous. Sometimes single bullets snapped over the top of the trench—sometimes a regular fusillade; then, at longer intervals, came the rapid-fire, vicious reports of a machine gun in action. Now and again a poilu sent a shot across the barren stretch of ground and a thin wisp of bluish smoke from the muzzle of his rifle floated lazily upward.

"They can't let Fritz do all the work," commented Don.

"Bonjour, Messieurs! On a tour of inspection, I suppose?" broke in a low voice.

An officer standing by the entrance to a dugout was regarding them smilingly.

"Yes," said Don, with an answering smile.

"Want to take a look inside?"

The officer pointed to the entrance.

"Very much indeed," declared Dunstan.

"All right. You're welcome. I'll go first; otherwise you might take a tumble."

He lowered himself into the opening and presently disappeared into the cavernous depths, and by the time Don had his feet on the rungs of the ladder an electric light, flashing up, dispelled the gloom.

The ambulanciers found that this particular dugout was about six feet square and scarcely high enough for a man to stand erect in.

"Perhaps you have been in finer apartments," said the officer, "but I must confess that this place has an irresistible attraction for me at times."

"I don't doubt it," laughed Dunstan. "How many men can sleep here?"

"Three or four, and the accommodations are not so bad except in rainy weather; then it's the most confounded place imaginable."

"It must be," said Don.

"Many a time I've seen the water in the trenches above a man's knees, and we have to work mighty hard pumping it out. We live in mud, eat in mud, sleep in mud, and look as if we were made of mud."

"Must be uncomfortable, sure enough!" commented Don.

"Uncomfortable isn't the word that hits it, mon garçon; it's perfect and unadulterated misery. However, there seems to be nothing which hasn't some good in it."

"Yes?" said Don questioningly.

"The floods put an end to the prowling of the trench rats for a time."

"Do you have many of them?"

"Well, I should say so! Nothing is safe from these thieving rascals. It's a positive wonder they don't try to get away with our steel helmets."

After a few moments' conversation the three clambered up the ladder and emerged into the open air. With the officer accompanying them, Don and Dunstan presently walked around a bend, and came upon a trench that started out at right angles to the firing-line and wound in a most irregular fashion across "No Man's Land."

"Hello!" exclaimed Don, in surprise. "Where does that go?"

"To the listening post," answered the military man.

"The listening post?"

"Yes, mon ami. And the end of it is so close to the enemy's trenches that the sentry who is stationed there—and one always is—can easily overhear the voices of the Boches. The sentry's duty is to listen and observe, and, as you can very well imagine, it is a pretty dangerous assignment."

"I'll wager it is," said Don. "I'd rather keep to the main street."

"Very naturally. A man in such an isolated position stands a good chance of being cut off from all help. Should the sentry discover a German patrol or anything else that looks at all suspicious he'd communicate the facts at once. Then, as a discourager to any German tricks, six hundred cartridges a minute could be sent crashing across 'No Man's Land.'"

"Is there an abri out there for the sentry?" asked Don.

"Well, rather!"

The aviator's son glanced toward the listening post with fascinated attention. The trench appeared so perfectly safe, with the walls rising on either side—and yet what peril lurked in every meter of the way!

"By the looks of things one might judge that the Germans could rush this trench and capture it," he remarked, reflectively.

"Yes; but the very instant they started the wires would flash the news back to the support trenches," said the officer, "and the reserves would come pouring out and stem it in short order. Surprise attacks do not cut much figure in this war."

"Crack—crack—crack!"—three rifle shots in quick succession.

A dull thud followed, as one of the bullets struck a sand-bag.

The soldier smiled.

"No occasion to worry, mes garçons," he continued.

"We're not doing any," grinned Don.

Not very long afterward the ambulanciers resumed their journey.

On and on they went, at a leisurely pace, always seeing the same sights and hearing the same sounds. Occasionally the twitter of birds came to their ears. They alone could dare to show themselves above the surface.

"This isn't like any war that was ever fought before," declared Dunstan, at length, in meditative tones.

And then, as the aviator's son was about to reply, a most frightful—a most deafening detonation burst upon their ears.

Almost instantly a second explosion followed. The earth seemed to reel and shake—the whole air to be filled with an awful vibration. The terrified ambulanciers, gasping—staggering—were almost thrown to the ground.

## CHAPTER XII

### THE ATTACK

All about them soldiers were fairly hurling themselves into the dugouts, and the boys would have done the same had they not for the instant been too dazed,—too bewildered to make a move.

And as they stood there, open-mouthed, with staring eyes, gazing straight ahead, they saw a tremendous column of smoke rising menacingly; and mingling with it were tons and tons of earth, rocks and branches—a fear-inspiring, terrible, yet grand and majestic spectacle.

Higher and higher rose the mass; wider and wider it kept spreading out at the base, until a great space of the blue sky became entirely blotted from view. And branching out from the rounded form of the great column of smoke were spurts and jets furiously lashing, twisting and darting about in every conceivable direction.

The terror which held Don and Dunstan fast in their tracks was but momentary, and very fortunate indeed it was for them that this proved to be the case; for they had scarcely dived into a dugout close by before the surroundings were deluged by an avalanche of descending missiles, which fell with terrifying, smashing force, filling the air with the sounds of vicious thuds, crashes and bangs.

Huddled in the darkness, the inmates of the dugout, their frames trembling from the shock, and half expecting to be blown to pieces, awaited the outcome in silence. A limb of a tree clattered down near the entrance; clods of earth shot beside it. And then the faint light which had been coming in through the opening suddenly disappeared, and dense, impenetrable blackness followed—a flood of earth and rocks could be heard pouring into the interior.

The ambulanciers and the soldiers were entombed. And scarcely had this startling fact been impressed upon their minds than a tremendous shower of smaller particles, making a din like the heaviest kind of hail, began to descend. And although the noise was very great they could faintly hear the reports of more rifles than they had ever before heard at any one time in their lives. A tremendous fusillade was going on.

"The Boches have mined the trench, and are attacking!"

These words were yelled from somewhere in the darkness—a poilu had spoken.

"Mined the trench and are attacking!" echoed Don, huskily.

After all, their visit had not been so very well timed, he thought.

Both ambulanciers possessed their full share of courage, but, nevertheless, they were very much alarmed. Visions of the many dreadful things that might happen filled their brains. Their situation was one of the gravest peril; even should they escape injury or death it might mean that their careers as Red Cross drivers were over and that they would be obliged to await the great war's termination in some prison camp.

The poilus, three of them, were now making a determined effort to remove the obstruction at the entrance to the dugout. It was hard work. As fast as they dislodged the yielding soil, the opening filled up again. But finally the hot, excited Frenchmen succeeded, and, with yells expressive of satisfaction and defiance, first one and then another clambered up the ladder and crawled into the trench.

Only a moment or two had elapsed when the sharp cracking of rifles apprised Don and Dunstan of the fact that these soldiers of the Republic were doing their part in helping to check the enemy.

The first impulse of the ambulanciers was to get out of the dismal darkness, but the loud explosion of a hand grenade, which landed almost outside, made them hastily reconsider.

"Something doing up there!" shouted Dunstan, his face close to Don's.

"Awful!" cried the aviator's son. He shuddered. "Here we are—caught—almost as helpless as rats in a trap. The trench is so far in advance of the support lines that the Germans may succeed in cutting us off. Whew! Just listen!"

The cracking of rifles—of machine guns—was simply terrific. But occasionally the keen ears of the boys caught other sounds even more terrible, more sinister than these ceaseless reports—the human voice raised as if in uncontrollable fury—as if in the greatest desperation and pain. The Red Cross men, listening, with every nerve at the keenest tension, knew what was going on—the hostile forces had come together and in a desperate hand-to-hand conflict were fighting with all the savagery and ferocity of wild animals of the jungle.

At last the howls and shouts and yells abruptly ended.

Had the French lines broken before the attack? Were the Germans in the trench?

Unable to bear the suspense, Don Hale sprang for the ladder. Cautiously, he began to mount; anxiously, he poked his head above the opening.

Then he drew a long thankful breath. The blue line had held.

French soldiers were still on the firing-step, sending volley after volley toward the east. Ahead a great portion of the trench had been utterly demolished; there was no longer any parapet or parados, but a mass of earth jumbled and piled together in the most extraordinary confusion. Nearer at hand débris choked up the passageway.

Don Hale allowed his gaze to rest on this evidence of destruction for only a moment. Something else had attracted the boy's attention and drawn an exclamation from his lips. Thick, impenetrable clouds of smoke were rolling slowly across the narrow strip of "No Man's Land," and he realized at once the reason for it—the Germans had created a curtain by means of smoke bombs in order to conceal their movements. Perhaps at that very instant they were ready to launch another attack.

Never at any time since his entrance into the war zone had the aviator's son felt peril to be so imminent. Should he and Dunstan venture forth they would expose themselves to the chance of being hit by some of the flying bullets; should they remain there was the possibility of capture.

A prey to the keenest apprehension and fears, he dropped back into the gloom and shadow of the dugout.

"This is worse than the 'Chemin de Mort,'" he cried.

"Very much so, Don, old chap," shouted Dunstan in reply.

Crouching against the wall, the ambulanciers vainly tried to gain some indication of the trend of events.

Sometimes, mingling in with the firing, they heard the voices again, and though fainter than before distance could not rob the sounds of their forbidding nature.

An hour passed—an hour such as neither had ever before experienced. It was filled with every sort of alarm. Veritable streams of shot and shell were crashing over the trench, and at times it seemed to the boys as if the crucial moment had at last arrived and that the host of gray-uniformed invaders must be sweeping down upon them through the smoke clouds.

And then, when both least expected it, there came a second cessation in the violence of the battle; the mitrailleuses and other machine guns stopped their fire altogether, while the sharp, vicious snapping of the rifles was heard only at intervals.

"Great Cæsar! can it be possible that the attack has been repulsed?" cried Don, inexpressible relief and hope in his voice.

"Let's take a look! Let's take a look!" shouted Dunstan.

Without an instant's hesitation Don Hale ran up the ladder; without an instant's hesitation he climbed outside the dugout.

Yes, there could be no doubt about it—the blue line still held. And the smoke cloud over "No Man's Land" had vanished.

A wave of joy surged through the aviator's son.

"Ils ne passeront pas!" he exclaimed in a fervent voice to Dunstan, who was now standing beside him.

"No—'ils ne passeront pas!'"

The air they breathed was impregnated with the odor of burning gunpowder; smoke drifted through the trench, and everywhere they looked a bluish haze filled the atmosphere.

Joyous as the ambulanciers were at their deliverance, they could not help but feel saddened at the thought of the many casualties which certainly must have occurred, not only through the great mine explosion itself but on account of the desperate nature of the assault which followed. Though both were intensely anxious to know just what had happened they realized that it was not a time to seek information from the stern-faced soldiers on the firing-step. On looking about, however, they discovered a poilu not much older than themselves leaning heavily against the rear wall.

Don, walking forward, ventured to address him.

"Did the Germans get anywhere near the trench?" he queried, eagerly.

The young soldier nodded.

"I think so," he replied. "Some were almost on top of us before we stopped them. But now that it's all over I can scarcely recall anything clearly. My head's in a whirl. But they tell me that wave after wave of the Boches rolled up, and then thinner waves rolled back again. It was terrible—awful!"

A perceptible shudder shook the young soldier's frame.

"Come on, Dunstan!" shouted Don, suddenly.

The art student instantly discovered what had attracted his companion's attention. Stretcher bearers were making their way over the heaps of débris ahead in search of the wounded. Don was already hurrying toward them, and Dunstan sprang to join him.

The nerves of the ambulanciers had on many occasions been put to pretty severe tests, so they were now rapidly recovering from the effects of their thrilling experience; but they were still in a situation of the gravest danger, for shells were every now and again screeching overhead.

Quickly reaching the brancardiers, the two were face to face with a scene which but for their experiences as Red Cross drivers would have perhaps made them falter and turn pale. The attack had exacted its full toll of dead and wounded. Many of both lay about, and the stretcher bearers were busily engaged in carrying the wounded to the dressing station just behind the lines.

Two, close at hand, were feverishly trying to release a wounded, half-unconscious poilu pinned down by a supporting timber of the trench.

The Red Cross men at once leaped to their assistance, though each had the uncomfortable realization that there was no shelter to protect them from the enemy's fire.

No words were exchanged by any of the four. The brancardiers used their spades while Don and Dunstan laid hold of the timber. By their united efforts it was at last raised and dragged aside. The two Red Cross drivers helped to place the soldier on the stretcher, and as they did so he opened his eyes and exclaimed, weakly:

"Well, I thought the Boches had got me that time—but they didn't."

"You are mighty fortunate," commented Don.

With a grave face, the boy looked over the ghastly battle-field and at the bodies of the blue-clad soldiers who had faced the Germans for the last time and died for their country. Harrowing as the scene was, however, he realized that at such a time emotions must be held in check; the duty of all was to the living.

Accordingly, he was glancing around, in order to see where he might be of help, when an officer approached. In sharp, authoritative tones, he commanded them to get away from that immediate vicinity with all possible speed.

"You are lucky not to have been killed," he declared.

"That's just how we feel about it," remarked the aviator's son, grimly.

"We have plenty of men here to do the work," continued the officer. "There's no use of your taking any chances. The Red Cross needs you."

The two, obeying his mandate, climbed down into the trench and started back the way they had come.

A little further along a communication trench opened out before them, and, swinging into this, they kept up a lively pace—or at least as lively as they could with so many soldiers constantly moving about in both directions.

No stops were made, however, for every now and then the cannonading started up afresh. The reports of rifle-firing in the trenches, too, carried over the air with unpleasant distinctness.

"I reckon when Chase hears our story he'll be mighty glad he didn't come along," declared Don.

"I reckon you're right about that," chuckled Dunstan. "By the way, old chap, it's becoming kind of sultry. To my mind, a storm is brewing."

"I wish I thought you were mistaken, but I don't."

"And both of us are on call to-night."

"Yes; and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if they'd need us at the outpost."

Following the devious wanderings of the boyau, the two finally emerged upon a recently-constructed military road which led up over the slope of a hill. From that time on they made rapid progress, and both were well pleased indeed when, hot, dusty and perspiring, they reached the headquarters of the Ambulance unit.

## CHAPTER XIII

### THE STORM

Naturally the story Don and Dunstan had to relate proved very interesting to the members of the section. But it did not create a sensation; in fact it would have required something very wonderful indeed to create a sensation among those young but seasoned drivers of the Red Cross. At any rate, however, it furnished a good topic of conversation for the rest of the day.

"If you will pull chestnuts out of the fire you must expect to get burnt," declared Chase on one occasion, as Don and Dunstan were busily at work in the courtyard overhauling and cleaning Number Eight.

"I suppose so," said the aviator's son, smilingly.

After supper the crowd gathered outside the old hotel, and while they were taking things easy on the roadside the rapid firing of anti-aircraft guns came to their ears. Following this they heard the whirring, musical sound of airplane propellers, and presently a fleet of German planes on a reconnoitering expedition was seen approaching.

Pale and gossamer-like, and flying in groups of three, they presented a very beautiful appearance. As the shells burst uncomfortably close the machines began to separate, some veering directly toward the road on which the Red Cross men had gathered.

Burst after burst of whitish smoke kept pace with them, and the boys could not help admiring the courage of the airmen, as they maneuvered their machines this way and that in order to escape the explosives.

"The planes are perfectly delightful to see," said "Peewee." "I'd almost like to be an airman myself."

"It's too high a calling for you," grinned Chase.

Suddenly the anti-aircraft guns to the east ceased firing and others to the west began to send forth reports.

And while the drivers stood there, craning their necks and regarding the spectacle with the utmost interest, a curious sort of whistling and pattering began to sound close at hand. "Peewee" was the first to realize what it meant.

With a loud yell of alarm he made a dash for the hotel.

And the others immediately left that particular spot with the same ludicrous haste.

The distance of a dozen yards or so to the entrance was covered just in time. The spent anti-aircraft projectiles were dropping from the sky; and the way they thudded and banged on the roof of the Hotel de la Palette and upon the roadway just outside made the crowd feel devoutly thankful that they were under shelter.

"A pretty narrow escape, I should say!" chirped "Peewee," pleasantly, when the flurry had subsided.

"You bet! But for our record-breaking sprint we might have been caught," said Chase.

"Ha, ha!" laughed "Peewee." "Oh, my! Oh, my! Won't things be dull when we get away from here! It will seem so awfully odd not to have to shake in one's shoes and tremble every little while."

"I'd like to see a motion picture of ourselves crossing the road," chuckled John Weymouth.

"I wouldn't," giggled "Peewee."

Having satisfied themselves that the danger was all over, the crowd made a sortie. They saw the German airplanes sweeping around, preparatory to returning to their own lines. And as several of the machines reached a certain position in the sky the rays of the sun, now low in the west, streaming through an opening in the clouds, caught the wings, and for one brief instant they flashed and sparkled with a golden reflection.

Now flying at a much higher altitude, shells failed to reach their level, and very soon the airplanes became but faint purplish specks in the distance.

"I guess the war-birds are skimming back home fast so as not to get caught in the rain," laughed "Tiny" Mason.

Great masses of cumulus clouds were piling up in the west and the air which blew in their faces came in hot, fitful gusts. As time went on the whole aspect of the sky became more ominous and threatening, and at last lightning glimmered faintly just above the horizon.

"It's going to be Heaven's artillery pitted against man's to-night," remarked the art student, thoughtfully.

"Which impels me to say that I hope to thunder we won't have to go out," declared Chase.

The village street now presented quite a lively appearance; for little groups of reserves here and there surrounded field kitchens, while others were sitting about eating their evening meal. Occasionally a military car, enveloped in a cloud of dust, whizzed by, and as the twilight slowly deepened a couple of camions, one close behind the other, appearing huge and impressive in the gloom, rumbled ponderously over the cobbled road, the first of a long line which, under the protection of darkness, would soon be going toward the front.

Slowly, the shades of night crept over the landscape; the distance became blurred; only the objects that rose against the sky could be seen with any distinctness, and these, too, finally became lost to view in the gathering gloom.

There was nothing very inviting about out-of-doors, so the ambulanciers at length gathered in the dining-room of the hotel, where Dunstan began to amuse himself, as well as the others, by making sketches. Then came the inevitable story-telling and the discussion of various topics, prominent among the last being the mystery of the Château de Morancourt and the strange incident which had occurred during Don, Dunstan and Chase's visit.

"Still an unfinished story!" sighed "Peewee." "When will finis be tacked on to the end, I wonder!"

"Let me ease your misery," grinned Bodkins, taking out his banjo. "I'll play a variation on Shubert's unfinished symphony."

"A variation!" jeered "Peewee." "That's a good name for an unrecognizable collection of tinkles and scraping sounds. Boys, what do you say to tacking the finis sign on that old banjo—instrument of torture, I should say—to-night? All in favor of——"

"Aye, aye, aye!"

A hearty chorus rang through the room.

A HEARTY CHORUS RANG THROUGH THE ROOM.

"The ayes have it," chortled "Peewee." "An axe! An axe! My kingdom for an axe!"

"And while the execution is taking place I'll seize the opportunity to take an observation on the weather," laughed the aviator's son.

Then, as a good-natured scuffling began for the possession of Bodkins' much discussed banjo, he left the cheerfully-lighted room and climbed up a dark stairway to the second floor.

Very soon he was groping his way toward the room formerly occupied by the "patron," or proprietor of the hotel. The window faced to the west, and the boy, presently reaching it, threw up the sash and looked out. Everything was intensely black; his eyes searched in vain for any of the familiar details, but not even the faintest silhouette of a roof or the outlines of a tree could be distinguished.

He had been at his post only a moment or two when there came a bluish flash of lightning which cast a weird glare over the landscape. For the briefest interval of time he had a view of the road and a procession of slowly-moving vehicles. The sweeping outlines of the hills, too, stood out grimly against the sky. Then came the blackness and gloom again, only to be broken by other vivid flashes, one quickly following another.

"It's going to be a wild night, all right," reflected the aviator's son, as he heard the booming of thunder mingling in with the roar of the distant cannon.

He was at an impressionable age, and these successive glares, which revealed the rounded, piled-up masses of storm-clouds and continually brought into view vistas of the surrounding country, impressed him strangely. Occasionally the peals of thunder grew louder, but they were not yet loud enough to drown the never-ending grind and rumble of wheels, the faint rattle of harness and clinking of chains, or the voices of drivers yelling commands to their skittish horses. He wondered if he and Dunstan would be called out at such a time. Don did not shrink from any task which he might be called upon to perform, but nevertheless he could not help heartily wishing that the night might pass without a summons.

"It will be a positive wonder, though, if there isn't something doing," he muttered. "The firing is growing heavier and heavier, and guns of all calibers seem to be at it."

He heard the sound of a step and a cheery voice calling:

"Hello, Don! Where are you?"

"At the observation post," returned the aviator's son.

"And I'll be there in another moment."

Dunstan, after colliding with several pieces of furniture, at length reached the window.

"Humph!—pitch black!" he exclaimed.

"Yes—except when it isn't," exclaimed Don, with a faint chuckle.

"Quite correct!" agreed the art student. "By George! How weird and solemn it all seems! And what curious impressions and thoughts it brings to one's mind!"

"And creepy sensations, too," said Don.

"Very true! To my mind, it is only the very stolid or the unemotional who fail to be impressed by such manifestations of nature."

For a long time the ambulanciers remained at the window and watched the lightning growing steadily brighter. The thunder rolled and reverberated, sounding more and more ominous and menacing.

At length the noise made by several of the boys tramping up to their rooms made them realize that the hour was growing rather late. Making their way to the stairway, they descended to the first floor, and were glad to get back to a region of light and good cheer.

"Ah, how beautiful nature must have looked!" piped "Peewee." "I suppose, mon cher Dunstan, you could see a whole lot of wonderful colors and tones denied to us poor, ordinary mortals?"

"I hope so," laughed Dunstan.

"And I can hear a wonderful lot of beauty in my banjo playing, even if no one else does," giggled Bodkins, who still had the instrument in his possession. "Just let me illustrate what I mean."

"If you do any illustrating by means of sound I will give a very good illustration of the fact that there are limits to even the most amiable of dispositions," said "Peewee." "I hope if the Germans ever capture this town they'll capture that banjo with it."

"Tut, tut, my boy!—another feeble attempt!" chirped the musician. "Let me tell you, gently but firmly, that clever remarks and bright, scintillating touches of wit and humor which lift conversation from the dull and commonplace are not in your line."

"I'll bet you wrote that out and committed it to memory," jeered "Peewee," "and——"

At this instant "Tiny," leaning over the table, blew out the lamp, while John Weymouth, taking Mason's action as his cue, extinguished the other; and with the sudden and unexpected advent of total darkness the colloquy between the two came to an abrupt termination.

"The fact has now been satisfactorily demonstrated that there is a limit even to the most amiable disposition of all," laughed Mason.

Then, with much chuckling and good-natured pushing and jostling, the ambulanciers made a break for the door, and in another moment or two emerged into the "Bureau."[10] There they found the sous chef, Gideon Watts, seated behind the long counter where, in the days long past, the former patron of La Palette had been accustomed to extend a greeting to his guests.

"Sounds like the sortie of a kindergarten," grinned the sous chef. "Nothing doing as yet, mes camarades."

"I guess you do well to emphasize the 'as yet,'" commented Chase, seating himself on a bench.

"We might as well hit the planks, fellows," put in Dunstan. "I declare—whenever I'm on call I feel more sleepy than at any other time."

"The same with me," confessed Weymouth. "But by the sound of things a fellow wouldn't be able to get much sleep no matter how hard he tried. Whew! That real, bona-fide thunder is going to be a winner over the imitation kind."

A deep, booming reverberation, winding up with a succession of crashes, was the occasion of Weymouth's remark.

Of course the drivers who were on call always remained fully dressed, and in order that there might not be an instant's delay in starting, as a rule they got what rest they could on the benches with which the bureau was supplied.

Perceiving that Watts was hard at work on a report, and no doubt being unconsciously affected by the solemnity and grandeur of the warring sounds of nature, the spirit of levity soon left the boys, and, one after another, they spread their blankets and lay down.

Conversation, carried on in subdued tones for some time, at length ceased altogether, though no one had yielded to the inclination to sleep. There seemed to be a curious feeling of unrest, of tense anticipation, which affected all of the Red Cross men and prevented their eyes from closing for more than a few moments at a time.

Don Hale found himself mechanically studying the scene about him. The glow of light from the lamp which stood by the side of the sous chef spread far enough out to reveal the businesslike appearance of the bureau. Numerous bulletins hung on the walls. Some included a list of the members of the section, the squads to which they belonged and the order of the driver's turns. Then, giving a certain military atmosphere to the place, rules and regulations to be observed by "La Section Sanitaire Automobile Americaine" were posted up, as well as documents from the "Médicin divisionnaire" and other officers. But, somehow, the wandering glances of the aviator's son nearly always returned to the bent-over figure of Watts and the telephone close beside him. A spot of light on the instrument that gleamed and sparkled like a star of the first magnitude seemed to have a peculiar, almost annoying fascination for him. Whichever way he moved his head its assertive sparkle caught him in the eye.

"I was almost sure we'd get a call before this," he exclaimed at length.

"Oh, I don't know," returned Watts. "Wendell anticipated that there might be some big doings to-night, and he has six cars stationed at Montaurennes. I hope they will be able to handle all the work."

Chase seemed to give a sigh of relief.

"The storm will soon be here," he declared. "The thunder is steadily growing louder."

"And the artillery, as though to rival its efforts, is pounding away more vigorously than ever," came from a partly-recumbent and shadowy figure in a far corner of the room.

The voice belonged to Dunstan.

"Well, we can't help it," grunted Weymouth.

He eased himself off the bench and after yawning several times began pacing forth and back. The others, weary, with blinking eyes, yet unable to sleep, evidently coming to the conclusion that any sort of action was preferable to remaining still, got up and joined him.

Now the booming of the thunder was giving them an idea of the fury of the storm. When midnight came the almost continuous roar was jarring and shaking the old Hotel de la Palette to its foundation. Window panes and doors rattled noisily, and the ambulanciers, about as wide awake as they had ever been in their lives, listened with feelings of awe as the rushing wind howled and whistled past and drenching torrents of rain beat and splashed against the ancient structure.

"Some poor chaps are getting a mighty good soaking to-night," remarked Don.

"I should think both sides would call off the war while the storm lasts," declared "Tiny." "Now is the time I suppose we ought to hear that 'phone bell ringing."

"Don't mention such a thing," said Dunstan.

Then, as the tumult of the raging storm made conversation difficult, the ambulanciers relapsed into silence. Some again lolled on the benches, while others continued to exercise their limbs.

The crashing of the thunder soon became almost deafening, and through every crack of the windows and door the bluish flashes of lightning gleamed brilliantly. And for hour after hour, with scarcely a lull, the storm kept up its violence.

Glad indeed were the Red Cross men when at length the force of the downpour began to lessen, the wind to quiet down and the lightning to come at longer intervals.

About two A. M. the last volley of nature's artillery boomed majestically overhead, the last heavy patter of rain-drops was heard, and the tempest, passing on, left the village serene and peaceful, except for the sound of the distant guns.

"Ah, mes amis, I breathe freely again," cried Dunstan. He laughed. "To tell the truth, I had dreadful visions of taking Number Three along that water-soaked road. It shows the folly of borrowing trouble. Be a philosopher. Being a philosopher prevents wrinkles from creasing the brow. It holds the gray hair at bay. It——"

Ting-a-ling! Ting!

With startling clearness, with startling suddenness, the 'phone bell began to ring.

No one uttered an exclamation; no one spoke. But every head was turned on the instant toward Gideon Watts, whose loud "Hello!" sounded simultaneously with the ending of the ringing of the bell.

Every one stepped nearer the counter; every one waited with the utmost eagerness—the utmost interest—to hear the words which would presently fall from the sous chef's lips.

And only an instant elapsed before they came.

"All right, Monsieur le Médecin," he cried. "We'll attend to it right away." Then facing the aviator's son, he added: "A hurry call from Montaurennes, Don—'tres pressé,' too, says the Médecin Savoye. Sorry, old chap. I guess you'll find it isn't any joke, either, getting to the post."

But Don Hale did not wait even to make a reply. Rushing to the bench, he picked up his gas mask and steel helmet, suspended one over his shoulders and slapped the other upon his head.

"Quick, Chase!" he called. "So-long, fellows!"

Then the boy dashed out of the room and in another moment reached the courtyard.

By the aid of his pocket flash-light he cranked the car. The explosive roar and hum of the motor suddenly started up, and, as it began to subside into a series of soft rhythmic notes, Don sprang to his seat. He heard the sound of a door slamming shut and the patter of rapid footsteps—Chase was hurrying over.

Without a word the young chap from Maine climbed up beside him.

"We're off!" exclaimed Don, in a low voice, as he threw in the clutch.

A loud warning blast of the horn went over the air, and ambulance Number Eight began to move slowly forward.

## CHAPTER XIV

### THE CHEMIN DE MORT

As the Red Cross car rolled under the archway the driver supplemented the work of the horn with a lusty yell.

Even to join the line of moving convoys was a mighty difficult task, and would have been almost impossible but for the fact that ambulances had practically the right of way.

Don Hale, alert, watchful, with a firm hand on the steering wheel, guided Number Eight slowly out into the roadway. The darkness was so intense that he could not see even the wagons passing directly in front—everything, indeed, was swallowed up in a void of blackness, but he knew by the sounds and the shouts of the drivers that an effort was being made to find a place in the line for the Red Cross car.

And then, just at that instant, there came a vivid flash of lightning. Another storm was approaching. And that particular glare served a good purpose. It enabled the boy to discover an opening, and without the slightest hesitation he increased the speed of the car. It swung past the foremost camion, the wheels grazing the front as it passed. Then an abrupt turn, and Ambulance Number Eight, splashing streams of water and mud in every direction, was in the middle of the road, hemmed in by vehicles.

It was risky, nerve-racking work. Now and again wagons lurched unpleasantly close, and horses, rendered skittish and hard to manage by the storm, swung directly in the path of the machine. Then, the young driver was ever mindful of the fact that cars coming from the poste de secours might be encountered at any minute hastening with all speed between the moving walls of vehicles. Don had the prime requisite of a good driver—a cool head and steady nerves—but these were only an aid, and by no means a passport to safety; for in the human element all about him were tired, overworked drivers, and men who sometimes combined recklessness with a lack of skill.

The lightning was again darting from cloud to cloud, or, in forked tongues, crashing earthward; and with each flash the surroundings were revealed with almost startling clearness—the long line of vehicles of every description, the muddy, water-soaked road, full of rivulets, splashing and rushing from pool to pool and reflecting the vivid, blinding illumination, and, on both sides, wrecked, forlorn-looking houses and trees.

"This is the worst ever!" groaned Chase. "It's bad enough here—what will it be when we get to climbing the hill! Don, I don't believe we'll ever make it."

The aviator's son did not reply, because the slightest incautious move might have brought disaster. Occasionally there was barely enough room between the huge, towering camions in which to guide Number Eight in safety.

Now and then the vehicle floundered and jolted from side to side, as one wheel or another slipped into the ruts. Just as they turned a bend in the road and the ancient ports suddenly rose to view—a black, grim pile against an instantaneous glare of bluish light—the rain again started to descend, first in a flurry of big drops splattering noisily against the canvas covering of the ambulance, then in a vicious, lashing downpour which pelted the two in the driver's seat with stinging force. And accompanying the deluge came sweeping blasts of wind that almost took their breath away.

"Awful—awful!" muttered Chase, holding tightly to his seat, while the vehicle, rocking like a boat in a storm, plunged heavily across a torn-up section of the road.

The noise of the wind and rain almost drowned the loud, rough voices of drivers yelling to their horses. Sometimes a heavily-loaded camion became stalled in the mud—then the entire convoy behind it was brought to a standstill, and perhaps held up for minutes at a time.

Don Hale during his service with the Red Cross had been out on many a stormy night, but never on such a wild night as this, and the dangers and difficulties which beset them promised to become far greater. Notwithstanding the weather conditions, both the French and German bombardments steadily grew in intensity. Marmites were continually landing in the fields, both to the right and left of the highway, and the young ambulance driver could not help reflecting on the dangers which awaited them along the Chemin de Mort and at the crossroads.

"Well, we haven't got to take any more chances than the rest," he muttered.

Though his face and eyes were smarting from the wind and rain and he was obliged to bend far over the steering wheel to protect himself from the blasts, Don made a determined effort to drive Number Eight rapidly ahead, but the pace seemed exasperatingly, fearfully slow. The vehicle, exposed to the full force of the elements, shook, staggered and wobbled and sometimes slipped and slid on the mud until it certainly appeared as if Chase's prediction must be fulfilled and the journey come to a disastrous end.

Zigzag streaks of lightning tore the gloom asunder; the peals of thunder crashed and roared with appalling force, following one another so closely as to fill the air with a continuous series of reverberations. And mixed in with all this commotion of nature's forces was the heavy booming of the big guns and the éclats of the dreaded marmites—all forming an awesome combination which would have created a tension in the nerves of the bravest. Struggling hard to keep his wits and faculties about him, Don wondered what the thoughts of his companion might be.

"Poor chap! It's pretty hard on him," he reflected.

Every glare from the heavens disclosed the dripping Chase huddled up in his seat, with a curious, strained expression resting on his face. His appearance suggested that of a person who, finding himself in a terrible situation, has lost every particle of hope.

Don Hale's reflections concerning Manning, however, abruptly ceased.

A bright gleaming flash of light close to the ground, instantly followed by a terrific concussion, made his heart fairly leap. A high-explosive shell had fallen not a hundred yards away. It was only what might have been expected, yet, nevertheless, it both startled and frightened him.

But the aftermath proved even more startling; the lead horses of a six-horse team attached to a returning "empty" began to rear, buck and plunge, in spite of the most strenuous efforts of the postilion driver to control them.

Even above the noises of the storm the ambulanciers could hear the animals' quick, terrified snorts and their iron-shod hoofs crashing down in the mud and water. Instinctively, Don Hale realized that they were turning across the road.

The Red Cross car came to a halt with a jerk. Quick action alone had prevented a collision.

Across the inky heavens darted another forked tongue of electric flame; another and another followed, and in the sustained, blinding glare the boys saw the horses pawing the air in dangerous proximity to the front of the machine. Momentarily Don Hale expected a crash.

"I told you! I told you!" shouted Chase.

A few instants of anxiety—of keen suspense—then came the opportunity for which the boy was looking—the fractious steeds swerved to one side. Ambulance Number Eight shot forward on the second, violently grazed the body of the nearest horse and continued, while the shouts of the postilion driver became quickly drowned in the roar of the rain.

"Adventure number one!" muttered Don, with a great sigh of relief.

In the narrow and rugged passageway he dared not put on many bursts of speed, though at times he shot past several vehicles in quick succession. Presently, however, he was forced to pause—there was not sufficient room to pass between the teams. A series of loud yells, a few vigorous, aggressive blasts of the horn, and the transports on either side began hugging the edge of the road. But still it continued to be slow work. "Tres pressé," the doctor had said, and Don Hale felt that upon his shoulders lay a tremendous responsibility.

"At any rate, we're getting nearer, old chap!" he yelled to Chase.

The crouched-up figure made no reply.

During moments in which the storm lessened the terrific din of the French batteries became more apparent. In every direction, both near and far, they seemed to be pouring forth streams of missiles, and the Germans on the hills beyond were returning a furious fire. Shells passed overhead in both directions, and even the roar of storm and cannon could not drown their sinister whistle—their awe-inspiring shriek. Every now and again they burst startlingly near, the resounding blasts echoing over the air, and as Ambulance Number Eight neared the Chemin de Mort the tension on Don Hale's nerves became so acute that sometimes an involuntary tremor shook his frame.

Now, by means of the lightning, he caught sight of the bend in the road. One of the most critical stages in their whole journey had been reached. For the first time Chase Manning aroused himself, and, sitting erect, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Cautiously, Don Hale took the ambulance around the curve. He heard his companion exclaim:

"The Chemin de Mort!"

"Yes!" cried Don,—"the Chemin de Mort!" He wondered how it happened that the convoys had not yet been halted along that shell-swept road.

"Once we get by I'll feel a bit easier in my mind," he muttered, "or, at least, I shall until old Number Eight draws up to the crossroads."

Would the Chemin de Mort justify its name?

Any speed would have seemed too slow to the youthful driver of the Red Cross ambulance, but the pace at which he was obliged to move tried him to the utmost. He took chances he would scarcely have dared before, and frequently the car was violently jolted and shaken as the hubs of wheels ground against one another in passing.

Don Hale fairly counted the yards; and doubtless every other driver along that section experienced sensations of just such an unpleasant nature as those which affected him.

Possibly it could only be a question of time when some of the projectiles were going to land squarely on the road, as they had often done before. Still, he reflected, a kind fate might protect them. The aviator's son realized, too, that dread and fear meant a lessening of his capacity to act with coolness and judgment, so he strove hard to cast both aside.

Very often the Chemin de Mort and the surrounding hills shot out from the dense obscurity, to become, for the instant, almost as clearly defined as in the broad light of day. They formed a weird—a most impressive spectacle; but each flash brought into view something else that was even more impressive—huge, low-hanging clouds of black smoke which told of the explosions of the marmites.

At length half the distance was covered, and still nothing had happened. Don Hale's spirits took an upward trend.

"So far we're getting along famously, old chap!" he cried to Chase.

"Number Eight has a long way to go yet," responded the young chap from Maine, in a strained voice.

Don sadly missed the companionship of Dunstan—Dunstan, the care-free, the courageous and the hopeful, who by his strength of character helped to impart strength to those around him. And yet he could not blame Chase. His nature was cast in a different mould.

As the ambulance rolled and bumped steadily along, the boy, in spite of all the dangers that surrounded them, could not help but be impressed by the grandeur—the sublimity of the situation. Now the wind was soft and low, now it rose to heights of almost tumultuous fury, and intermingling with its cadences were the sounds of booming guns—of thunder—of pelting rain and exploding shells, all combining to form in his mind a strange, weird symphony—a symphony expressive of terror and tragedy.

Three-quarters of the greatly feared Chemin de Mort were passed in safety. Don Hale's spirits rose still higher. The rain was finally beginning to slacken, for which he felt profoundly thankful. The water was running off his khaki uniform in streams; but discomfort held no place in his mind; all his thoughts were on that bend ahead which would take them into a safer zone.

And, suddenly, he almost jumped from his seat. Again a terrible blast had sounded—not ahead but to the rear.

Where had that shell landed? Was it on the road?

Chase was sitting bolt upright.

"By George! That's the time we nearly caught it!" he shouted.

Don nodded.

"A few moments, more or less, play a great part in this kind of game," he exclaimed, grimly.

But now the bend in the road was right before them, and presently Don gave an exclamation expressive of the keenest satisfaction. The ambulanciers need have no further concern, for the present at least, about the Chemin de Mort—at last, it lay behind them.

The young driver was becoming so much easier in his mind that he began to think of a letter he intended to write to his chum, George Glenn. And wouldn't a description of this wild ride in the stormy night make good reading! The boy thought so—he even chuckled softly to himself, as his mind continued to dwell on the subject.

And then, just as he was about to mention the matter to Chase, there came another appalling roar—a roar and crash so terrific, so frightful in its intensity that the two ambulanciers were almost hurled from their seats.

A perfect deluge of flying mud and stones struck the car.

## CHAPTER XV

### A BLOCK ON THE ROAD

Ambulance Number Eight came to an abrupt halt. Although almost stunned—almost overwhelmed by the shock—Don Hale had managed to prevent it from crashing into a camion close ahead. He knew what had happened—a shell had landed on an ammunition wagon and fairly blown it to atoms. The lightning showed a huge, towering column of smoke spreading across the road; it also revealed horses lying prostrate in the mud, struggling desperately to rise, and other horses, wild and panic-stricken, kicking, plunging and endeavoring to break away from their restraining traces.

It took some moments before Don Hale could recover the use of his faculties sufficiently to stir from his inaction. His head was aching; his pulse throbbed and jumped; he felt as if he had been almost deafened by the explosion. A frightened horse which had managed to tear itself loose from the wreckage came running madly—furiously along, dragging a part of the traces and barely missing the ambulance as it clattered by.

"Come on, Chase!" yelled Don, springing to the ground.

The road was blocked, and drivers of all the vehicles in the immediate vicinity were hurrying as fast as they could through the mud and water toward the wreck ahead.

Without waiting to see whether Chase intended to join him or not, the boy started off. But he had only gone a dozen yards or so when another tremendous concussion caused him to stagger toward the nearest wagon. And in the grip of a fear he had never known before—a fear that robbed him of his strength—he leaned heavily against it. Half stunned and gasping, Don felt as though the end of all earthly things had come.

And now additional shells began bursting close to the road. Don had a vague, confused impression of seeing men dashing this way and that, but he himself, his faculties for the moment almost paralyzed, was held fast to the spot. And while he stood there in that helpless condition, his form shaking violently, the whole air seemed filled with pandemonium—a hideous whirring, screeching, screaming series of sounds, mingling in with terrific, thunderous blasts that sent violent tremors through the earth and made the huge camions rock and lurch as though they were about to topple into the roadway. Flashing jets of flame from the exploding shells cast a weird, unnatural light over the surroundings, and as if some mighty convulsion of nature was upheaving them, giant geysers of earth, mud and débris shot high in the air, while streams of iron and steel created havoc and destruction on every hand.

The terrified Don Hale heard the thud of bullets and fragments of shells all about him. He seemed to be no longer living in the world but in the midst of some awful inferno from which there was no possibility of escape. But though it was unbelievably, fearfully appalling, he managed to keep his wits about him. Faint, weak, every instant expecting utter annihilation, the boy made an effort to walk forward and just then there came a bright, wicked-looking flash, accompanied by a detonation that seemed fairly to crack his ear-drums. The concussion was great enough to hurl him backward; and while his senses were still reeling from the shock, a veritable stream of earth, thrown up as if from the crater of a volcano in eruption, descended upon him and in a moment he was almost buried beneath a mass of mud.

For a time he remained in a state that was neither consciousness nor yet a lack of consciousness—a state wherein the terror of the situation seemed to be softened to such a degree as to make it easy to bear. When the dull, dazed sensations did finally depart, however, leaving him with a clear understanding of the realities, he gave a gasp of wonderment—of almost stupefaction.

A strange calmness had come into the world—of course only a relative calmness, for the batteries had not ceased to fire; yet the contrast between the present and the immediate past was so remarkable as to make it appear as though such a thing could not be. Was it possible that the bombardment was over? Was it possible that he had gone through such peril and remained unscathed?

With a cry expressive of gladness—of the thankfulness he felt, Don Hale endeavored to regain his feet. But a heavy weight was pinning him down to the earth. He kicked and struggled to free himself from the soft, though tenacious grip of the mud. Now, after a valiant effort, he sat up and jerked one leg out of the mire. It was hard work in his weakened condition. The mud was in his eyes—in his hair. The boy happened to recall the officer's description of life in the trenches during rainy weather, and for the first time since leaving headquarters Don smiled, though the smile was grim and set. At any rate, it served to still further relieve his pent-up, overwrought feelings.

Again he exerted all the strength he possessed and presently the other leg slipped out of the mud. And as he struggled up, unstable on his feet, a great throbbing was in his temple. Like a man on the point of swooning, he clutched the nearest object for support.

Then Don suddenly thought of Chase. A terrible fear that his companion had not been so fortunate as himself took possession of him.

A thick pall of smoke hung over the road; and when the lightning came again he caught a faint, shadowy image, a mere silhouette, of Number Eight standing in the middle of the narrow passageway, but he could see no signs of Chase Manning, indeed, no human beings were in view. The road was deserted—he was alone.

What was to be done? Should he, too, seek some abri by the roadside?

"No—no!" he muttered—"no!"

Though almost choking with the smoke and fumes, he nevertheless raised his voice in a loud cry of:

"Chase—Chase!"

No answer.

Again and again he shouted, and then, as still no response came to his keenly-attuned ears, the boy was filled with dreadful forebodings, and in his anxiety he seemed to momentarily forget all else.

Shells were coming that way again. At any instant the road might be swept by another deadly stream. But Don Hale, whose mental faculties and strength began to return, paying not the slightest heed, started toward the ambulance, often splashing through great pools and puddles. The thunder still rolled and boomed overhead. There were longer intervals, however, between the flashes of lightning and it was not until he arrived quite abreast of the car that the landscape once more sprang into view.

Chase Manning was not in the driver's seat nor was he anywhere to be seen.

"Hello, Chase! Hello!" yelled Don.

Many times he repeated the cry, and if Chase had been uninjured and anywhere near he must have heard the strained, anxious voice of his comrade.

Had a tragedy occurred?

As Don Hale stood there in the middle of the road, with the wind and rain still sweeping against him, he shivered at the thought and at the recollection of the awful moments through which he had passed. It seemed to him a most marvelous thing that any one in that vicinity could have escaped alive.

Putting all the force of his lungs in a final effort, he shouted:

"Chase!—Chase!"

And then, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, he made a despairing gesture and hurried away—not in search of an abri, however, but toward the scene of destruction ahead. He felt shocked, depressed and disheartened.

But, all at once, he recalled the words of Doctor Savoye—"Tres pressé." His paramount duty was to take the car to the outpost, if such a thing was possible. He must get there. He would get there. And with this thought, which for the time being drove all doubts, perplexities and worries from his mind, he broke into a run.

Then, very soon, he began hearing voices and footsteps—the drivers of the convoys were returning.

Presently the aviator's son almost stumbled over the prostrate form of a horse. Its body quivered; its iron-shod hoofs flew in all directions. Recovering his balance, the boy, with a startled gasp, leaped aside and continued on, in another moment finding himself close upon a scene of extraordinary confusion. A flash of lightning revealed wagons wrecked and débris strewn along the road. A number of horses were lying about, those which still remained alive, as a result of their furious struggles, having become completely entangled in the harness. Several on their feet immediately started to rear and plunge anew as the men arrived among them.

"Great Julius Cæsar! This is another dangerous game," murmured the aviator's son.

The wild and fear-stricken animals had to be set free, and unless extraordinary care and precautions were used they might stampede along that narrow passageway and perhaps cause either serious injury or death.

The adventurous Don Hale had no intention of standing idly by. He watched his chance, and, taking advantage of a succession of brilliant flashes of lightning, groped his way cautiously past several of the prostrate horses—a very dangerous proceeding. Hoofs were continually on the move and every now and again one or another of the animals managed to struggle to its knees, remain in that awkward position for an instant or two, and then fall back with a dull and heavy thud.

It was a strange, awe-inspiring situation for a boy to be placed in—close to the battle-front, with the storm-clouds overhead, in the midst of wreckage and frantic horses, and facing the possibility of a tragic end. Yet, though all these things were vaguely impressed on Don Hale's mind, his thoughts were not upon them. The words "Tres pressé—tres pressé" continually sounded in his ears.

He advanced boldly, right into the midst of the prancing, pawing animals. Hoofs were thudding down hard all about him; streams of liquid mud often splashed against his figure. The movements of the ponderous bodies made Don forcibly realize that one false step, one moment's lack of thought, might cause the most disastrous results. Again the lightning proved a friendly aid. A horse stood directly in front of him. Its mate lay stretched in the mud. Originally the team had been one of eight horses, but how many were still on their feet Don could not tell. He did know, however, that the drivers, in the darkness, in the slippery road, were having a mighty hard time to control the fractious beasts.

A man brushed roughly past him and seized the bridle of the fallen horse.

"Quick!—if you've got a knife, comrade, cut the traces!" he yelled. "Fast now! We've got to get them out of this. And watch yourself, or it's good-night!"

"I know it," muttered Don.

He took out his knife. A sharp, quick slash, and one of the leather traces was cut in two. Then the keen-bladed instrument ripped its way through another. And from that moment the aviator's son was constantly in the midst of the greatest excitement and danger.

Now he was cutting the traces; now helping to urge the horses to one side; now tugging hard at a bridle, jerked this way and that, or lifted bodily off his feet, perhaps to get a fleeting glimpse by means of a bluish glare of lightning of a great head with foaming mouth, distended nostrils and glaring eyes rearing high above him and to feel the hot breath of the animal upon his cheek. More than once he was violently bumped and almost sent to his knees.

The constant shuffling of feet, the pounding of hoofs, the loud rough voices of men raised in harsh yells and commands and the accompaniment of rolling, booming thunder and bursting shells seemed in Don Hale's mind to form a part of some strange, wild fantasy rather than of actual reality.

At last, however, the war in the roadway was at an end; one by one the horses capitulated to superior intelligence and skill and were led aside. Only those which lay helpless where they had fallen remained to be attended to.

The aviator's son, quite exhausted, his head still throbbing violently, felt compelled to rest. Every joint and muscle in his body seemed to be aching. A dull pain caused by the repeated concussions was in his ears. And then:

"Tres pressé! Tres pressé!"

The words, shaping themselves in his mind again, fell from his lips.

Their appeal could not be disregarded. With an energy born of an earnest desire to fulfil his duties to the uttermost, he resolutely cast aside every thought of physical discomfort or of fatigue and once more lent his efforts to the work of clearing the road.

Never had he toiled harder than he did during the next three-quarters of an hour, and by that time the last uninjured horse was up and the wreckage and débris sufficiently cleared away to permit the passage of Ambulance Number Eight.

It was a joyful moment to the weary Don Hale when he climbed aboard the car, yet, withal, a very sad one. Where was Chase? How lonely—how depressing it seemed without him!

"Hello, Chase—hello!" he called.

He heaved a great sigh, as no answering hail was received, and, murmuring, "Well, such is war!" put the vehicle into motion. There was no help for it—he must continue on to the outpost alone.

## CHAPTER XVI

### A FOOTSTEP ON THE STAIR

For a few seconds after Don Hale had jumped down from his seat on Number Eight Chase Manning sat motionless. His brain was in a tumult and all power over his muscles seemed to have vanished. There was no escape—there could be no escape, he thought, from such a horrible situation; and when after a few moments had passed and he found himself still alive it came as a matter of great surprise. Then, suddenly, a reaction set in; the benumbing sensations which had robbed him of strength and courage disappeared, and in their stead came a wild, a feverish desire to run—to run in any direction so long as it led away from the vicinity of that terrible road.

He heard Don Hale call, and by a flash of lightning discovered him hastening away. To his mind his fellow ambulancier was seeking safety in flight, and to act in any other way he thought would have been sheer madness—almost like offering oneself up as a sacrifice to the God of War.

He sprang to the ground, and, in a state of the utmost panic and excitement, lunged heavily through the mud, seeking for a passageway between the vehicles.

Those were terrible moments to Chase Manning. He felt cold shivers coursing through him; his heart was throbbing painfully.

Shells began bursting with fearful force close about him and his overstrained nerves threatened to give way completely.

Men were dashing past, running with all that mad haste which characterizes the actions of those fleeing for their lives.

"It's all up! It's all up!"

The words fell stutteringly from Chase Manning's lips.

The flashing fire of the exploding projectiles, the thunderous concussions and the fumes which were wafted in his face appalled him. He began to experience a feeling of rage—of bitter rage against those who were responsible for the engines of destruction on the opposite hills.

He soon found a narrow passageway between the transports and then, with lowered head, began running across a muddy, uneven field—a field that one moment was swallowed up in pitchy blackness and the next illuminated with a dazzling glare of lightning. In his panic and confusion of mind, he entirely forgot the shelters that might have been found along the road.

As he plunged and staggered ahead his feet often sank deeply into the soft, yielding soil, which held on to them with a sucking, tenacious grip that was hard to break. Although dazed—almost unable to think coherently—he never ceased to put forth his utmost exertions. The bursting projectiles were dropping to the right and left of him, ahead and behind, each with a gleam of flame, a stunning detonation and an enormous rounded pile of smoke, and now and then shrapnel shells exploding in the air sprayed the earth with bullets.

Despite the pains and aches which the strenuous exertion brought into his frame, Chase kept struggling on, in the midst of Heaven's storm and the far deadlier storm created by man. Many a time he had narrow escapes from falling headlong into the shell-craters that pitted the field; many a time he crawled around a rim to safety.

At length, after having been on the move for about five minutes, he began climbing the slope of a low ridge, and on arriving at the top, his forces being practically exhausted, he was obliged to come to an unwilling halt.

He had withdrawn, as it were, to the edge of the zone of falling marmites; and with this knowledge the turbulence of his emotions slowly subsided and he was better able to grasp the sense of things.

"Poor Don Hale!" he panted. "I'll bet he's 'gone West'![11] How terrible!"

Making no effort to protect himself from either the wind or rain, the young chap from Maine turned, and, with eyes that twitched with excitement, gazed in the direction from whence he had come. A portion of the road lay in full view, and as each flash gleamed in the sky, he could see the motionless transports vaguely defined against the background. Column after column of ugly-looking smoke was being swept along with the wind, sometimes clearly in front of the camions, sometimes clearly on the other side. Vaguely, he thought that the Chemin de Mort never could have received a worse baptism of fire.

What was he to do? Where should he go?

Able to reason clearly for the first time since the explosion, these questions presented themselves to his mind. And to neither could he find a satisfactory answer. Of one thing he was quite certain—it would have been beyond reason for him to return to the road.

And yet, in spite of his gratitude to Providence for having spared him, he felt a curious and ill-defined feeling of dissatisfaction with himself. Had he been guilty of deserting his post?

He could answer the question firmly with a "No!"

Had he acted with any degree of bravery?

He could also answer that question with a "No!"

Wet and miserable, Chase Manning passed through some very distressing moments.

And then something occurred which once more caused him to start with alarm. It was the familiar whistle of an "arrivé," a sound which never failed to send a series of tremors through him. He had time to wonder where it was going to land and whether he should throw himself flat on the ground when the explosion occurred. And it was so close at hand that for a few terrible moments Chase felt that he must certainly be struck by some of the flying fragments.

"By George, that was another narrow shave!" he exclaimed, in a hollow voice. "If I don't get away from here in a hurry one of those confounded things will get me yet."

For a second time Chase Manning began a flight, not so precipitous as the first, though none the less determined.

But for the lightning he would scarcely have been able to make any progress at all; for he was now in the midst of a patch of timber. The tall straight trees, mostly denuded of their branches and boughs, seemed more suggestive of a collection of gaunt telegraph poles than of monarchs of the forest. He did not succeed in getting through this woods, however, without receiving many painful jabs and bumps from various objects which impeded his progress.

A little farther along Chase stumbled upon a road at the crest of a hill, and after his weary march over the water-soaked, torn-up earth to be actually on a highway once more came as a most welcome relief.

"Well, only a little while ago I certainly never would have expected that I'd be standing here safe and sound!" he panted. "Now, what am I going to do? The bombardment along the road seems to be about over."

With the change in the situation the tension seemed to be lifted in a measure from the young Red Cross driver's mind. He had gone through the most frightful peril without anything more serious happening to him than a few minor bruises and scratches. And now that it was all over it scarcely seemed as if it ever could have happened. And what was the sequel to be?

To this self-propounded query the answer came at once:

"Return to the road and Ambulance Number Eight, or, at least, to the place where you left it."

But where was the ambulance? He had paid no attention to direction in his flight and hadn't the least idea now where the road lay. Thoroughly perplexed, Chase leaned against a tree trunk.

The storm had lessened, but of all the dreary and dismal situations it was possible to imagine this seemed about the worst. Here he was—alone, in utter blackness, with a few pattering drops of rain occasionally falling and little gusts of wind toying with the vegetation and making a weird symphony of sounds.

"The people who started this confounded war haven't my best regards," he growled. "It's——Oh—oh—hello! Who would have believed it!"

A flash of lightning had enabled him to make an interesting and surprising discovery. It was the tower of the Château de Morancourt, faintly visible in the distance.

"Great Julius Cæsar!" exclaimed Chase. "I said no more night visits to lonely châteaus for me, but, by Jove, I'm privileged to change my mind. After what I've gone through another visit would seem like a joyful picnic. Yes sir—why not? The château at present seems to be perfectly safe from German guns. So I'll just wait in the ancient stronghold of the De Morancourts for daylight to come."

Having decided upon something definite, Chase immediately felt very much better. He easily managed to persuade himself that it was the wisest course to pursue, though at times unpleasant doubts persisted in coming into his mind.

"Confound it! Nobody could be expected to take a chance of throwing his life away," he growled almost savagely. "Anyway—here goes!"

Traveling along the road, the young chap made rapid progress, even though the gloom was so intense that he often found himself plunging off into muddy fields at the side. Thoroughly drenched, he waded regardlessly through the pools and puddles, his sole thought being to reach the château, and, in quiet and safety, give his nerves and body the rest they required.

Arriving at the base of the hill, he found the entrance to the park of the Château de Morancourt right before him. How it brought back recollections of his previous visit! He thought of Don Hale, the youngest ambulance driver in the service, and his anxiety and forebodings concerning him increased, especially now that his thoughts were not upon his own immediate safety.

"Poor chap—poor chap!" he murmured many times. "How great a suspense I must endure! Ah!—war—war! What a terrible thing it is! Oh, but hang it all, I mustn't think too much!"

Chase, groping his way past the gate-posts, entered the grounds. Everywhere the surroundings were black and forbidding, for only an occasional gleam of lightning from the now rapidly-departing storm faintly illuminated the sky.

"Anyway, I'm in no danger of losing my way," he thought, a little grimly. "Be as black as you please, old nature; I am in a position to defy your efforts!"

Walking steadily along between trees which he could scarcely see and by the side of lawns equally invisible, he soon found himself in front of the ancient château. The lightning flashed, and the ruined tower, austere and threatening-looking, stood for an instant a black silhouette against the glare, and then melted away into obscurity.

On a former occasion the loneliness and mystery of the night had strangely impressed Chase Manning; now such things appeared trivial—not worthy of a moment's thought. He was no longer affected by idle fancies or tricks of the imagination—actualities alone concerned him. Even the thought of the mysterious sound and the equally mysterious flashing light were totally disregarded as, slowly and cautiously, he passed under the great porte-cochère and circled entirely around the structure, not stopping until he came to the broken window.

What he would not have dreamed of doing before had he been alone he now proceeded to do without a tremor, and that was to grasp the window-sill, pull himself up and enter the building.

"Whew! I thought that nothing could be blacker than it is outside," he reflected, "but I was mistaken. It's a mighty good thing I brought this along."

In another instant a pocket flash-light was sending a dancing beam of light across the floor.

"That chair which disturbed our equanimity the other night ought to serve as a mighty nice and comfortable resting-place to a weary, mud-bespattered fugitive from the horrors of war," muttered Chase. "Ah, but this has been a night to be remembered!"

Quickly crossing the great apartment, he entered the next, and, well remembering the position of the chair, directed his light upon the spot. But instead of its rays streaming over the piece of furniture, as he had fully expected, they simply made a patch on the floor and wall.

And at the discovery of the fact that it had actually been moved again Chase Manning gave a start.

"By George, that's queer!" he jerked out. "Is this really a deserted château, or isn't it? Am I alone, or are there others around?"

He paused irresolutely, fighting an impulse to turn upon his heel and make a precipitous exit from the place over which so much mystery seemed to hover.

"No, sir! I came here to stay until daylight—and stay I will!" he muttered determinedly. "Hello!"

The flash-light which he was idly directing about had suddenly lifted the form of the chair out of the darkness. It stood in an inconspicuous position, partly concealed by a handsome screen.

"Now, I'd give quite a lot to know just how it got there," he mused. "Did the same person who moved it before repeat the operation, or was it some one else? Ah, that's a question which would certainly interest Don Hale!"

Then, as his thoughts reverted to his fellow ambulancier, Chase felt such a troubled feeling coming over him that for a moment he quite cast aside his reflections concerning the peculiar travels of the innocent-looking chair. Don, he feared, was hasty and impulsive, with the rash bravery which sometimes belongs to youth. What a terrible thing it would be if anything should have happened to him!

Chase was thoroughly weary. His endurance had been tried to a greater extent than ever before in his life, and with every movement pains shot through him. Without wasting any time in cogitation or surmises, he walked over to the chair, pulled it away from the screen, and then, giving expression to a feeling of contentment, sat down.

"This has certainly been a night of contrast," he sighed. "From being in the midst of storm and battle to a luxurious seat in a fine old château is a wonderful change."

Stretching his legs out before him, Chase closed his eyes and prepared to get as much comfort as possible, though, of course, in his wet uniform and with shoes heavily caked with mud, there was not much to be had. It seemed very solemn. From outside came the rumble of the big guns; but the soft soughing of the tree tops in the breeze, a soothing, lulling sound, aided the boy in his effort to compose himself.

Soon Chase was only vaguely conscious of his surroundings. He seemed to be again going through the terrifying ordeal of the night, in the midst of a most extraordinary confusion, neither real, nor yet unreal. At length, however, as though his brain had become too weary to longer allow these thoughts to hold such a mastery over him, he fell into a peaceful doze and from that drifted into a state of profound slumber.

Though in reality considerable time had passed, it seemed but a moment later that his eyes suddenly opened.

Chase realized that something had startled him, but what he could not tell. A peculiar tingling sensation ran through him. He looked hastily about. What did he see?

Nothing, save that the windows instead of being indistinguishable from the rest of the room showed as faintly-gray patches of light—the dawn was breaking.

Mentally deciding that imagination had played with him, Chase was about to rise from his seat when he heard the sound of a footfall caused by some one descending the grand stairway.

Quite electrified, he stifled a gasp. It was a most unpleasant experience, conjuring up in his mind all sorts of strange, wild fancies. Should he make his presence known?

For the life of him he could not repress a series of cold shivers; his nerves were on the keenest edge. And as he sat there motionless the tread of feet sounded louder; yes, some one was approaching.

Now Chase stood up. And then, as his eyes were turned toward the doorway leading to the dining-room, a flashing light suddenly shot across the threshold—and behind it he perceived the dark, shadowy form of a man.

## CHAPTER XVII

### BARRAGE FIRE

Don Hale certainly had a very unpleasant prospect before him. Responsibility shared is that much lessened; but, bravely holding his feelings in check, he guided Number Eight with a firm hand.

"I hope to goodness no more adventures are in store for me to-night," he thought, grimly.

Reaching the scene of the catastrophe, the car bumped and floundered heavily over places where the explosion had torn up the road-bed.

The "empties" were still stalled, but the transports in advance had gone on their way; and for this Don felt very thankful, as it enabled him to make better speed.

Around another bend—then Number Eight began mounting the rather narrow road which led over the hill just beyond. The roar of the big guns hidden in the forest was now almost incessant, and between the trees in the distance, through the clearing atmosphere, the ambulancier caught glimpses of flares and signal bombs rising above the German trenches.

Along this portion of the way he again encountered "arrivés," which were coming in pretty fast and still further devastating the forest, but so long as none of them landed within a few hundred yards or so the young Red Cross driver's mind was easy.

Finally the ambulance climbed over the summit and presently went slipping and sliding down the opposite slope. The lightning now cast only an occasional glimmer among the trees and the task of piloting the car down that wet and treacherous incline required all the skill Don Hale possessed. Not the faintest glimpse of horses, wagons or trucks could he see. It was taking chances with a vengeance. Nevertheless the young ambulancier, ever mindful of the serious nature of his mission, kept steadily on, while the forest all about him rang and reverberated with the thunderous reports of the big guns. A succession of rolling hills was passed in safety, and now the dreaded crossroad was being approached.

"The Germans are peppering it, all right!" exclaimed Don, aloud.

A marmite had just dropped on the heights above.

There are some things to which the nerves can never become accustomed. Don Hale felt his heart throbbing faster; he clutched the steering wheel with a stronger grip, and anxiously peered upward.

Bang!

Another shell, he felt sure, had come close to its objective point. Still Number Eight kept plugging steadily along, and while the boy's thoughts were fixed intently on the crossroad a series of bright flashes accompanied by crashing reports from the top of a high bank almost overhead nearly startled the life out of him.

A battery of soixante-quinze, or seventy-fives, had suddenly gone into action. The force of the concussions was so frightful as to cause the ambulance to shake and tremble in the most violent fashion. The young ambulancier's head seemed to be fairly bursting.

Guns on the other side of the road now began blazing away, and to the rolling, volleying, crashing reports was joined the echoes hurled back by the surrounding hills.

A tir de barrage[12] was on.

Fearful that his ear-drums might be permanently injured, Don strove to get away with all possible speed, but the road was slippery, the hill rather steep, and under the circumstances Number Eight could only crawl along.

He found the strain almost unendurable.

The roar gradually became louder, at last culminating in one mighty, reverberating crescendo, like the rolling and booming of continuous thunder, which jarred the earth with its appalling intensity.

As the car neared the top of a slope Don Hale, scarcely able to control his jumping nerves, became a witness to one of the most marvelous and stupendous spectacles which man has ever given to the world.

From the heights both to the north and south as far as his vision could reach, guns of many calibers were belching forth their messengers of death so fast that in places the spurts of livid fire piercing the blackness appeared almost to join together and form a flickering line of flame. All the elements of the sublime, the terrible and the unreal were there; and so awestruck and thrilled was the boy that, actually forgetting the danger which threatened him, he brought the ambulance to a halt and gazed with wonderment on the scene.

Streaming high into the sky was a great pyrotechnic display. Balls of brilliant white fire sent a ghastly light over the surrounding landscape; red and green signal rockets were continually ascending, while powerful searchlights flashed this way and that, until the night was fairly driven away and a strange, almost supernatural illumination held sway.

Breathless, almost spellbound, Don Hale sat in the seat of the ambulance. Then, suddenly, recalled to his senses by the words "tres pressé" flashing through his mind, he put the car in motion again. Truth to tell, the boy had never been more frightened—more unnerved in his life. While such a fearful commotion was under way it seemed as if nowhere could any safety possibly exist. All things impressive at other times now dwindled into insignificance.

Occasionally the vari-colored lights in the sky shone faintly on the now moving line of "empties." Amid the immensity of the conflict even the great camions appeared like mere atoms. However, it gave Don Hale a sense of vast relief to know that he was not alone.

The ambulance descended a slope and mounted a hill beyond.

The danger point was right before him. The vehicle lurched heavily. The rear wheels had narrowly missed sliding into a shell-hole. Yes, there had been some work going on at the crossroads that night. Now the driver increased his speed, and Number Eight presently shot over the brow of the hill.

And from the heights Don caught a glimpse of another extraordinary scene—the bright flashes of the French shells, a literal stream of fire, bursting over the German lines—withering, scorching blasts, which must have been fairly annihilating to the enemy's trenches. And in the heavens above was another magnificent display of star-shells and signal rockets. But this time Don did not halt a second.

The thunder of the guns showed no signs of abating, and as blow invites blow, so the artillery on the eastern hills was stirred into frenzied action, and the terrible din of the French batteries was answered by the terrible din of the foe's. Countless projectiles whistled and screamed overhead in both directions. Every instant terrific detonations came from shell-bursts in the forest, and frequently the frightened driver of the Red Cross ambulance caught glimpses of their lurid gleams.

"It seems almost like the end of the world!" he reflected, with a shiver.

About this time the boy began to vaguely wonder if dawn was not breaking. At first quite uncertain, he soon realized that the blackness actually was being dispelled.

"Ah, what a relief!" he cried.

Imperceptibly but steadily, the light spread throughout the sky, and finally a cold, cheerless glimmer was descending into the valleys, bringing the surroundings very plainly into view. Once more the serpent-like line of camions had come to a halt. Not a driver could be seen, all evidently having sought safety in the abris along the roadside. Don Hale felt an almost irresistible impulse to do the same, but, manfully setting such thoughts aside, he stuck to his post.

At last the car was chugging its way up the slope of the final hill. Now the tops of the gaunt, scarred trees above stood out clearly against the rapidly-lightening sky. Gleams of somber gray were penetrating into the forest and formless shadows began to assume definite shapes. All nature appeared in its most sad and melancholy aspect. The dripping, water-soaked vegetation reflected the dull leaden gray of the clouds overhead; rivulets were still trickling down the hill and huge puddles and pools lay on all sides, as reminders of the recent storm. There is always a certain solemnity about the awakening of day, and this particular dawn seemed to be one of the most impressive the young ambulancier had ever known. He could not help picturing in his mind the awful scenes which must be taking place along the battle-front, yet, wrought up as were his nerves, thoughts of Chase Manning almost constantly came to his mind. Had anything happened to him? Where was he? What wouldn't he have given to know!

The last stretch was probably the most terrible of all. Shells were actually landing all about the road. Like avalanches, the upheaved earth and stones and trees came crashing downward, though, amid the terrible roar, no sounds of their falling could be heard.

Now that the light was stronger, Don Hale, his face bathed in perspiration, drove recklessly; and Number Eight, like a marathon sprinter on the final lap, wobbled, staggered and shook as it bowled over the last few yards of the main road and turned into the spur which led to the abri.

"Great Julius Cæsar! I am actually here!" cried Don.

The car stopped with a jerk, and in another second he was on the ground, running with all speed toward the shelter.

With every ounce of his strength he pounded on the door.

It was almost immediately opened, and Don Hale, the youngest ambulancier in the Red Cross service, almost fell inside.

## CHAPTER XVIII

### "DESERTER!"

Chase Manning, in the great apartment of the Château de Morancourt, was most unpleasantly startled—even alarmed. Who was this man? What was he doing there? Where had he been while Chase slept peacefully in the chair?

The mind under stress works rapidly, and all sorts of conjectures flashed through his brain. Presently the man entered the room, the rays from a flash-light in his hand sending streaks of light jumping here and there in the most erratic fashion.

And still Chase Manning stood immovable. He was wrestling with his nerves, and obtaining control over them by slow degrees. Perhaps the stranger would pass through the room without discovering his presence.

And just as he was devoutly hoping that such might be the case the little stream of light switched abruptly from its course and darted straight toward him.

Chase Manning, with a gasp of dismay, found the rays of the instrument directly in his eyes.

The man recoiled, uttering at the same time a curious, half-stifled cry. He had evidently been terribly startled. The flash-light quivered and shook, and the illumination, swinging off from Chase, struck the wall behind him.

But in an instant it was again turned in his direction, and the man, with a loud, angry exclamation, stepped hastily forward.

"Who are you?" he cried, in a voice which, though it showed the effects of his scare, rang throughout the room.

His menacing attitude, his aggressive action and the tone in which he spoke made Chase Manning fall warily back. Face to face with an actuality, however, his nervousness departed. He felt, too, a touch of anger beginning to surge within him. Instead of immediately replying, therefore, he jerked out his own flash-light, and instantly a whitish glare fell squarely upon his interrogator's face.

Thus, had any one else been present, he would have witnessed a most singular spectacle—two people each directing a stream of light upon the other, each grimly silent, each with a most eager look upon his face.

And breaking the tense, strained silence there came a simultaneous cry of surprise—of amazement—from both.

"You—you!" stammered Chase.

Yes, he had seen that man before. He was the poilu whom they had encountered at the Hotel Cheval Noir. But his attitude, his expression and his manner were in such striking contrast to that of the suave, polished and distinguished-looking Frenchman that it scarcely seemed possible that he could be the same.

"So it is you, eh?" exclaimed the French soldier, in a voice choked with anger. "What do you mean? By what right, I ask, are you invading the Château de Morancourt at this early hour?"

And, advancing, he shook his finger threateningly in the other's face.

Though astounded—nonplussed—Chase Manning stood his ground.

"And may I ask by what right you are here?" he demanded. "What do you mean by invading the château at this early morning hour?"

"And that, I may say, concerns me alone. But I demand an answer to my question. A person does not enter a place like this without some definite object. Explain—or I may be compelled to place the matter before the proper authorities!"

Chase Manning's command of French was rather limited, but he found no difficulty in speaking the foreign tongue sufficiently well.

"As you please, Monsieur," he exclaimed. "And in that case you may have some explaining to do yourself. When you heard our story the other night you never said a word about coming to the château, and yet I'll wager you're the very man who moved this chair—who carried the light that my friend saw at the window. I dare you to deny it."

The vehemence of the American's manner, the high pitch of his voice, the light which gleamed in his eye seemed to rouse the other to a greater degree of wrath.

"Who are you, that you should interrogate me?" he demanded harshly. "Why are you not at your post? The road, I believe, was shelled this morning. Every car and the services of every man belonging to the ambulance corps must be imperatively required in such an emergency; and yet you are here—why? I have strong suspicions, indeed, that you are a——"

"Say it!" blurted out Chase, savagely. "Just say it!"

Perhaps there had never been a more dramatic moment in the history of the Château de Morancourt. Standing only a few feet apart, the two faced each other as if ready to begin a most desperate battle. The soldier's insinuation had touched Chase Manning to the quick. It was insupportable—something that he could not and would not stand. Though the word was never uttered it seemed to ring in his ears—"deserter!—deserter!"

"Take that back and apologize!" shouted Chase, "or—or——"

He got no further.

A quick movement on the part of the poilu—a sudden raising of an arm—then Chase discovered the muzzle of a revolver on the level of his eyes.

With a cry of alarm, he stepped back. Never before had he so forcibly realized how ugly and dangerous a revolver can look. As though fascinated, he stood staring at the muzzle, which gleamed and sparkled in the rays of his flash-light.

"I take nothing back," answered the other, firmly. "And, furthermore, Monsieur, I order you to leave at once. Delays are dangerous. Go—go, I say!"

He stepped forward, pushing the revolver almost into the American's face.

Chase had never been so furious—so disgusted in the whole course of his life, and at the same time he felt greatly alarmed. The poilu seemed fairly bristling with rage—on the point, indeed, of uncontrollable fury.

Chase, helpless, was almost afraid to trust himself to speak.

"Perhaps another time you will first learn to whom you are talking!" continued the Frenchman. "Allez—allez!"

As the soldier advanced step by step, never letting the revolver waver from in front of the American's head, another strange scene was enacted within the walls of the Château de Morancourt. Chase Manning retreated; and in this singular fashion they crossed the great apartment and entered the next, heading for the demolished window.

And it was not until they reached it that any further words were spoken. Then Chase, who could scarcely control his pent-up emotions, burst out explosively:

"Americans, Monsieur, do not need revolvers to bolster up their courage. We have met twice; perhaps our third encounter will be the most interesting of the three."

"Go!" said the Frenchman, sternly. "One—two—three!"

But by the time he had uttered the "three" Chase Manning was safely outside.

He did not tarry, either. Facing an angry man armed with a revolver he considered too dangerous a proposition.

It was fully ten minutes before he had recovered sufficiently to think with any degree of calmness. The fresh air, however, the slowly-awakening day, and the sound of birds singing in the trees all combined to soothe his overwrought nerves.

"Well, that was certainly a peach of a row!" he muttered, at length. He began to laugh softly. "Another illustration of the strangeness of human nature! I suppose if either of us had only remained cool a few words of explanation might have prevented such a miniature war. Now, I wonder who in the world that poilu can be! Strange—incomprehensible! 'First learn to whom you are talking!' Well, if there is one certain thing in the world, I will learn to whom I was talking. Ah! Deserter, eh?"

He clenched his fists. The hot blood mounted to his face. He came to a halt and looked back.

The old château appeared very dim and shadowy; for the cold, cheerless light in the eastern sky was just beginning to steal over the mist-covered landscape. Everything was reeking with moisture; vegetation faintly glimmered; every gust of wind seemed to bring down pattering drops of water from the leaves. Presently, he stood in a streamer of mist, and between him and the distance were others. The world that surrounded him was gray and melancholy-looking. Boughs and branches bestrewed the carriage road, and in whatever direction he turned there seemed to be nothing but dampness, desolation and cheerlessness.

Chase had been so concerned with his own personal affairs as to be almost unmindful of everything else; now he realized that the guns of both armies were pounding away at a fearful rate. The perplexing question of what he should do came back to him. To steer in the direction of the road seemed like madness; and yet the word "deserter—deserter!" could not be banished from his mind. The thought made him clench his fists again. Ah! he would show them—he would show anybody whether such a word could truthfully be applied to him! He was in a mood to welcome danger—to defy it. A new spirit seemed to have been awakened within him. Notwithstanding the roar of the artillery, he started off at a rapid rate. Not long afterward the great park lay to the rear and he was traveling upon the road along which he had come during the night.

Slowly the light of day crept across the landscape, though the mists, which continued to hang low over the earth, occasionally prevented him from seeing very far.

"Whew! What a night!" muttered Chase. "Shall I ever forget it? And how singular a wind-up!"

The boy indulged in a train of reflections concerning the Château de Morancourt and the mysterious poilu until he approached a zone in which lay the gravest dangers.

The barrage, rising to tremendous heights, was making a din that rivaled thunder in its intensity.

At last he was brought to a halt. To continue any further toward that raging tornado of shot and shell would have been both foolhardy and useless. Seating himself on a rock by the roadside he listened and marveled at the fury of the bombardment. Though terrible and tragic, there seemed to be in it something of the magnificent and sublime. And the raging conflict had the effect of making him forget himself and his worries.

The sun rose above the horizon, and what little mist remained was soon dispelled. In place of somberness and cold, gray tones a trace of warm, mellow color spread over the landscape, and presently beams of sunlight were shooting between breaks in the clouds. The hills and distance came into view.

Wonderful indeed was the spectacle before Chase Manning's eyes. For miles along the German front the shells from hundreds and hundreds of French guns of all calibers were exploding, and the multiplicity of flames gleaming through the smoke produced a marvelous, almost terrifying sight. The upper portions of the rolling columns were tinged with rosy hues.

Spellbound, forgetful of almost everything else, Chase Manning continued to gaze on the battle, which had now reached its greatest height. Birds were singing close about him; some alighted on the road not far away, but he scarcely saw them; his whole mind was centered, with feelings of the deepest awe, upon that titanic conflict between the great nations of the world. He thought of the countless sacrifices, of the horror and the tragedy; and he wondered how, in this great age, the folly of mankind could have reached such stupendous proportions.

Very often he saw projectiles bursting in the fields or on the slopes of the hills and sending high in the air huge geysers of smoke and earth.

An hour passed, and the rolling, booming and volleying of the guns had begun to lessen; it was as if their fury had been spent—their strength exhausted by the tremendous effort.

"What I have witnessed would seem to be enough to shake the world," commented Chase, "and yet perhaps it may mean only a gain for the French of a few hundred yards or the capture of a trench or two. Now, boy—en route—en route! As the mysterious poilu said, 'every car—every man must be needed;' and, by George, I'll do my share of work to-day, unless the Boches should happen to catch me before I have a chance."

The old sullen look which had so often marred his features had vanished, and in spite of the ordeal of the night he appeared keen—alert—earnest. Though he fully realized the great risk he ran, he resumed his journey.

The way led over a series of hills—barren, desolate-looking hills; for all the trees and vegetation had been scorched and blasted by the enemy's shells. Every once in a while concussions sounded that brought back some of the old tingling sensations, while shells continually whistled over his head from French batteries on the hills at the rear. To Chase's great satisfaction, the road led in the right direction; then, to further encourage him and revive his spirits, the canopy of clouds overhead was beginning to break away, and nature, refreshed and revivified by the rain, appeared in its most charming aspect.

As Chase finally neared the road which led to the outpost he saw many evidences of the destruction wrought by the bombardment—huge shell-craters, trees uprooted or broken and splintered, and, in many places, great quantities of loose earth and rocks scattered over the ground.

"I don't think anybody can blame me for getting away in such a hurry," he murmured, with a wry smile. "By George! I can't say I exactly relish the idea of going to the outpost on foot, but it's got to be done."

Within a very few minutes he turned into the main highway, soon discovering that he had reached a point close to the place where the explosion had occurred. Of course the train of ammunition and supply wagons was no longer there, in fact the road appeared absolutely deserted, but Chase had scarcely tramped more than a hundred yards or so when he caught sight of a motor car in the distance swinging rapidly toward him.

"One of our ambulances, I'll wager!" he cried.

The surmise proved to be correct

"And, by George, wouldn't I give a lot if it were Number Eight!"

With the utmost eagerness and hope, he kept his eyes fixed upon the vehicle. In a few moments he would be able to tell.

"No!"

He sighed with disappointment. Neither of the figures on the front seat was the aviator's son.

He heard a shout as the car sped swiftly by and saw a hand raised as if in salutation, and, murmuring, "It's Number Five!" continued on his way.

Scarcely had the car disappeared around a bend when another came into view and behind it a third. They, too, were traveling at a rate of speed which showed their mission to be of a most urgent nature.

"Yes siree, the section's busy, all right!" murmured Chase. "Now maybe Don is among these chaps."

But once more he had to suffer the pangs of disappointment.

Just as soon as the cars had passed he broke into a run, not so much on account of the danger from the falling marmites, the explosions of which every now and again jarred over the air, but because of his intense anxiety to fulfil his duties and to learn if anything had befallen Don Hale.

When Chase, panting from his exertions, reached the scene of the disaster he was not surprised to find a great amount of wreckage bordering the road on either hand. Several camions, battered and smashed beyond repair, were before his eyes, as well as poles, harness and chains, remnants of cases which had once contained goods, and, here and there, the bodies of horses, the whole forming a truly melancholy spectacle,—all the meanness and sordidness of warfare with nothing of its grandeur.

Chase, thankful indeed that he could not discover anything among the débris belonging to Number Eight, nevertheless shuddered as vivid recollections of the bombardment crowded into his mind.

Passing around the curve in the road, he began toiling up the hill. In his impatience to reach the post the way seemed to drag out interminably.

The guns in the forest were roaring at intervals—much too short intervals to suit him; for many had their muzzles almost pointed over the road, and the early morning air was filled with a purplish haze of smoke. Now and then the German gunners, searching to put these batteries out of commission, sent shells hurtling among the trees, to create still further havoc. That walk of Chase Manning's to the outpost was certainly the most eventful he had ever taken.

"It is like flirting with death!" he grunted, after recovering from the effects of a blast which had made him jump with alarm.

And it was not the last time either that he experienced such sensations while traveling over the hilltops and down in the valleys. At times he almost gave up hope of ever reaching his destination, as the guns blazing furiously away suggested that the tir de barrage was about to start again. In spite of all his efforts, just at that particular time, Chase could not altogether master a feeling of dull despair. And while in the midst of one of these moods he happened to stop abruptly and look behind him.

A cry—a joyous cry escaped his lips. A Red Cross car was coming down the hill at a rate which fairly astonished him. Now and then it jolted and bounced or took a wide, swinging curve around some bad place in the road, but it was not reckless or careless driving. The young chap at the steering wheel seemed to be handling the car with all the skill, all the courage displayed by the drivers in an automobile race.

A RED CROSS CAR WAS COMING.

The sight of that oncoming car served to remove a tremendous load from Chase Manning's mind. But what he discovered, as the whirr of wheels grew louder and he was able to see clearly the bent-over figure of the driver, made him feel like giving expression to his joy in a series of wild, exuberant shouts.

"Don Hale!" he gasped. "Sure as I live, it's Don Hale!" He raised his voice in a loud yell of "Hello, Don; hello!"

And on the instant the racing car slackened speed, and, rolling up to within a few yards of the Red Cross driver, came to an abrupt halt.

"Great Cæsar! I thought it was you, Chase," shouted Don Hale, his face shining with happiness. "Honestly, I was never more glad of anything in my life. But quick—jump in. There isn't a moment to lose. My, this is certainly fine!"

"The finest thing that ever happened!" agreed Chase, exultingly. He sprang nimbly up to his old seat beside the driver, adding: "This is better luck than I ever dreamed of, Don."

In the great happiness and pleasure which the reunion gave them the ambulanciers almost forgot the peril that constantly surrounded them; indeed it was a wonderful moment to both, and though each felt deeply anxious and curious to learn about the adventures of the other, they realized that it was a time when personal affairs should have little place in their thoughts.

Chase settled himself comfortably on the seat and Number Eight was on the way again. The young chap from Maine fairly bubbled over with glee, and he looked so unlike the usually grim, taciturn Chase—the Chase with whom the Red Cross men had become so familiar—that Don was quite astonished.

Owing to the condition of the road, the necessity of reaching the outpost in the shortest possible time and the booming of the big guns, the ambulanciers had scarcely exchanged a word when the car, turning off the main highway, entered the spur and a moment later stopped before the abri.

## CHAPTER XIX

### THE RED CROSS

In view of the immensity of the conflict and the number of guns employed, it is not surprising that the surgeons at the outpost and this particular Red Cross section had all the work they could possibly attend to. Even as Don and Chase arrived the brancardiers were bringing in the wounded from the firing-line on both stretchers and little two-wheeled carts; so that all that Chase could learn about his companion's movements was that he had passed through some very thrilling times, and after reaching the outpost in safety had remained there until the firing lessened sufficiently for the Red Cross men to begin taking wounded to the hospital. He had already made several trips.

"Well, well!—of all things!" exclaimed Docteur Vianey, addressing Chase. "I cannot myself believe it possible that you have come."

Swiftly and silently, four stretchers on which unfortunate poilus had been laid after being picked up on the battle-front were slipped into the ambulance. Don Hale and Chase Manning sprang to their seats, and the car was on the way again.

Down the hill it went at as fast a pace as Don could take it. It was always the old question of saving minutes and perhaps thereby saving lives. Very soon a string of three cars passed them returning to the post.

With never a stop, the ambulance kept plunging over the hills and across the valleys, and once on the broad military road, with a clear track ahead, Don increased its speed until objects by the wayside seemed to be fairly hurling themselves toward the car and flying past with bewildering rapidity.

Now they were on the Chemin de Mort, and a few minutes later had gone far beyond. A Red Cross car again flashed past; then, after a short interval, another. The outlying houses of the village shot into view; the ancient porte, in full sunlight, loomed up against the sky, and the ambulance, without slackening speed, presently rolled under its shadowed arch. The blurred outlines of the Hotel de la Palette soon sprang into the range of vision. The car fairly leaped across the intervening space, Don and Chase had an instantaneous view of the old hostelry at close range, and then it too was sent spinning to the rear. Almost like a flash, the rest of the village passed in review and the Red Cross car was bowling along in the midst of an open country, past encampments of soldiers and through little one-street hamlets crowded with all the evidences of warfare, the toot, toot of its horn, the roar and rumble of its wheels never failing to result in its being given the right of way.

At length, after speeding for about six kilometers, Number Eight swept around a curve and rolled down a rather steep slope at the base of which they could see a cluster of red-roofed houses between the trees. A typical little French village it was—full of charm—full of poetry; and enveloped in the soft haze of the morning it suggested a place of quietude and charm.

At the bottom of the hill there came an abrupt turn in the road. The car rumbled across a little one-arch stone bridge, and almost immediately they were in the midst of the low, stuccoed dwellings. The tall poplars here and there sent a network of delicate shadows across the road. Beyond, a church spire stood out clearly against the glistening white of a mass of fleecy clouds, while the weather-vane, reflecting the sun, gleamed like a spot of flame. Lazily floating near the top of the steeple was that flag before which even the God of War himself must pause—the flag which belongs to no country, to no race, and yet belongs to all—the Red Cross flag; for this little village church was no longer a place of worship but a field hospital where the wounded received treatment before being sent further away from the scene of hostilities. The vestry bad been turned into an operating room, and over the floor of the main body of the church was laid a thick carpet of straw upon which the injured soldiers lay in rows.

There were many poilus about this little village, and also a number of blue-bloused peasants, who, in spite of the terrible conflict, persisted in tilling their fields and pursuing as orderly an existence as events would allow.

Only once was Number Eight obliged to halt before it reached its destination, and that was when a farmer's cart drawn by a pair of clumsy oxen rolled across its path.

Another turn, and the ambulance drew up before the church, which faced a little square.

Scarcely had the car halted when brancardiers, followed by a surgeon in white, put in an appearance, and with the same promptness that had characterized the entire proceeding the wounded were lifted out and carried into the hospital.

"A wonderfully quick trip, mes amis Americaines," declared the surgeon; "and I fear that you will have many more to make."

"There's not much doubt about that, Monsieur le Médecin," exclaimed Don. "Au revoir!"

The young driver took the Red Cross ambulance along the road on the return trip as fast as he could possibly pilot it in safety. A very brief stop was made at the Hotel de la Palette, where the car was given an overhauling and the supply of gasoline replenished. The French cook, too, ever solicitous about the welfare of the men of the section, handed each a substantial lunch, reminding them that care for their own requirements would enable them to better serve the requirements of others.

"We'll certainly have to take it on the fly to-day," said Don, with a grin, as he resumed his post.

Number Eight had not traveled very far beyond the ancient gate when it passed a pathetic procession of wounded poilus. Nearly all were swathed in bandages, and, as though their terrifying experiences on the firing line had dulled their senses, they seemed to be marching along in a weary, listless manner, seeing nothing, hearing nothing and paying not the slightest attention to their surroundings. On the faces of many still rested traces of the horror—of the awful fear which must have been theirs. The strong were assisting the weak; those who could see guided the steps of those who could not; and the speed of the whole straggling group was regulated by the halting, limping gait of men scarcely able to drag themselves along. A strange, melancholy sight indeed were these silent, mud-covered soldiers of France, who had fought and suffered and given all but their lives to their country and who were now almost physical wrecks.

"It's terrible—terrible!" reflected Don Hale. "But c'est la guerre—it is war."

Some distance further on another peculiar procession was encountered, though of an entirely different character. This was a long line of captured Germans, guarded by officers on horseback. Strong, sturdy specimens most of them appeared to be, and only a very few wore bandages of any sort. Their attitude was that of men who felt immensely relieved, and scarcely a downcast or sullen face could be seen among the lot. Fritz, although a reliable fighter while engaged in the business of fighting, is evidently a very philosophical and docile prisoner.

The ambulance reached the outpost without any further incident to mark the journey. And as soon as the wounded could be placed on board another trip to the hospital began.

And thus for the whole day the work continued without intermission. During the greater part of the time both the French and German artillery kept up a heavy cannonade, and on several of their trips Don and Chase ran into sufficient excitement and danger to show that the latter had bravely pulled himself together.

In all, the section carried about three hundred and seventy-five wounded to the hospital, and it was not until after seven o'clock that the car, splashed all over with mud, rolled into the cobbled courtyard of the Hotel de la Palette and the two weary ambulanciers jumped out.

"It's been a wonderful seventeen hours," commented Don.

"I should say it has," agreed Chase. "It seems like an age. But it's me for a nice wash, some supper, and then——"

"A whole lot of conversation," laughed Don. "Just think, during all this time we haven't had a single chance to listen to one another's stories."

At the supper table that evening every one heartily agreed that the aviator's son deserved the Croix de Guerre. Every one heartily agreed, too, that Chase had proved himself a man.

"Honestly, Chase, I never could have believed it of you!" exclaimed Wendell. "You know we—we—that is——"

And here the chef paused.

"Don't get confused, old chap," laughed the other. "To tell the truth, fellows, the horror and tragedy of the war affected my nerves to a much greater extent than I ever expected. I knew every one here thought I had a yellow streak, and I even began to suspect you were right. The whole thing made me feel mighty grouchy and uncomfortable. Sometimes it requires a great crisis to bring a chap to his senses. I didn't think much of myself for running away from the road, and something else occurred which also helped to bring about a wonderful change in my state of mind."

"Pipe us about the something else," exclaimed "Peewee."

Thereupon Chase gave an account of his experience at the Château de Morancourt and his meeting with the soldier.

"The intimation that I was a deserter—actually a deserter—aroused me as nothing else in my life ever did," he continued emphatically. "And the hardest part of it all was the fact that I realized that I actually had been considerably at fault. You can just bet I determined to wipe out the stain—if there was any." Chase's eyes began to sparkle. "In fact I got into such a mood that I actually felt like courting danger instead of avoiding it," he cried. "So I hope no one will ever again be able to justly accuse me of having a yellow streak!"

"Bravo—bravo!" cried Bodkins.

Warm expressions of approval came from all the others.

Following this a general discussion in regard to the poilu started.

"It's really too bad that duelling has gone out of fashion," declared "Peewee," reflectively. "Really, a nice little set-to with either swords or pistols would come as a pleasant change."

"Thinking it over," remarked Bodkins, "I shouldn't mind a bit acting as a second. I'm pining for some excitement. Couldn't the old custom be revived?"

"At any rate, joking aside, I intend to get satisfaction," grinned Chase. "And I shan't be satisfied until I do."

"Let's catch that mysterious poilu and make him listen to some of Bodkins' music," suggested "Peewee."

"No inhuman revenge for me!" laughed Chase. "At the very first opportunity I'll run over to the Cheval Noir and have that third meeting. Boys, I think you'd better chip in and hire a man with a motion picture outfit to film the interview."

"It ought to be a scream," grinned Ravenstock.

"The whole affair is really quite extraordinary," put in Dunstan, thoughtfully.

"It's still much—too much—like one of those confounded 'to-be-continued' yarns," complained "Peewee." "Only, they come to an end some time and this one never will."

"''Tis true, 'tis pity; and pity 'tis 'tis true,'" quoted Bodkins, with his usual giggle.

Dunstan nodded, while Don exclaimed, shrugging his shoulder:

"But, after all, who can tell?"

## CHAPTER XX

### IN THE TOWER

Just two days later Don, Dunstan and Chase journeyed to the ruined and deserted village, in the hope of finding the "mysterious poilu," as they called him, at the Cheval Noir. Their quest, however, proved unsuccessful, the only sign of life they saw being the cat, which, from a considerable distance, eyed them with evident suspicion.

"It's too bad," grumbled Chase. "I certainly would have given a lot to see him."

"Well, if he isn't here he must be somewhere else," remarked Don, philosophically; "and that somewhere else could very well be the Château de Morancourt—so, suppose we pay the old place another visit."

"By all means!" laughed Dunstan.

"I, too, am heartily in favor of it," declared Chase.

It was still quite early, the heat of the day had not yet begun to be felt and a pleasant, refreshing breeze swept across the country.

They felt no inclination to linger in the once delightful little hamlet, for in the strong, clear sunlight it presented such a picture of indescribable ruin as to sadden them.

Following the road they had taken before, the ambulanciers strolled leisurely ahead. Of course they were always hearing the booming of the guns, some comparatively near, others far in the distance.

They arrived at the great park of the château, however, without running into any adventures, and climbed over the wall.

"Having a definite object in view always adds to the zest of a promenade," remarked Dunstan. "How I hope our curiosity may be appeased as a result of this visit!"

"I'm afraid it isn't at all likely," said Chase, with a dubious shake of his head.

"Anyway, we're getting lots of fun out of it," put in Don, leading the advance along the carriage road. "My, how different this place looks from the way it did the other night!"

"Yes; the shadows and mystery have gone, but not the charm," remarked Dunstan. "Our imaginations are no longer acted on by the mystic spell of the night. Ah, how beautiful nature is! As Bryant says: 'For our gayer hours she has a voice of gladness and a smile.'"

"True enough!" said Chase.

It took quite a while for the three to reach the point from which Don had seen the strange light in the window, for Dunstan was forever stopping to call his companions' attention to some interesting view. But none proved so interesting as the sight of the grand old château itself, with its massive, picturesque walls looming up in sunlight and shadow.

While they stood there admiring it an airplane was suddenly discovered soaring majestically in the eastern sky.

"Hello! I wish I'd noticed that bird before," exclaimed Dunstan. "Quick, fellows—get to cover!"

He sprang toward a near-by clump of trees.

His companions immediately followed.

"Confound it! Who knows but what powerful field-glasses may not be leveled on the château at this very moment!" cried Don. "We must be doubly c-a-r-e-f-u-l."

"A bit of profound wisdom!" laughed Chase. He peered cautiously between the leaves and branches. "It's a good thing that machine is pretty far away."

"But it's not far enough away to suit me, however," murmured Dunstan.

Without exposing themselves in the slightest degree, the three keenly watched the machine. Although receiving the attention of the French gunners—for little puffs of white smoke were breaking all about it—the plane continued to approach.

"Lie low—don't budge!" cautioned the art student.

"Catch me trying it!" said Don. "Just to think that before very long I'll be floating around in the air myself!"

"And I certainly won't," declared Chase, emphatically.

After a few minutes had passed the airplane, making a wide, sweeping circle, flew directly toward the German lines, soon disappearing behind the trees in the park.

"Now's our chance!" cried Don.

"Yes. Let's cast aside worries and test the laws of chance," laughed the art student.

"In other words, beat it before another plane comes into view," cried Chase.

Leaving their place of concealment, the boys broke into a run, and, covering the distance to the château in short order, mounted the broad flight of steps at the entrance.

Presently Don Hale was using the big bronze knocker in a lusty fashion.

All three were very curious—very expectant—very hopeful indeed that in another moment the great door might swing wide open and the distinguished-looking Frenchman greet them.

But nothing of the kind occurred.

"It doesn't seem as if there was going to be an instalment to this part of the story," pronounced Dunstan, in a tone of disappointment.

"He may be in there, however, and won't come out," exclaimed Don.

"Then, if the poilu won't come to us we must go to the poilu," declared Chase, very firmly.

The trio hurried down the steps, walked around the building and presently reached the open window.

Forthwith, Don Hale climbed inside.

The aviator's son half expected to hear a challenge hurled at him, but a dreary, mournful silence pervaded the great apartment, which one swift glance showed him to be entirely empty.

"Well, it may be another game of hide-and-seek," he murmured. "But, with daylight in our favor, it ought to be a bit easier than it was the other night."

One after another, Dunstan and Chase followed Don into the château.

"I'm back here again, old chap, to find out to whom I was talking," shouted Chase. "Come—don't be bashful! And kindly leave your revolver behind."

His words rang out startlingly clear, but the footsteps which the ambulanciers thought they might possibly hear in response did not sound.

"Never mind. It doesn't prove anything," said Chase. "To work, boys!"

In view of Chase Manning's strange experience, Don Hale found quite an enjoyable thrill to the situation.

With the daylight streaming through the high windows the magnificence of the apartment became fully revealed, but the ambulanciers, intent upon the task before them, did not linger. In the adjoining room they stopped for a few moments to admire the flood of lovely color in the stained glass windows and then passed on. A thorough examination of the first floor was quickly made.

"It's as certain as anything can be that the 'mysterious poilu' is not down here," declared Chase, at length. "To tell the truth, boys, I've about given up hope of seeing him to-day."

"You can't find a bird if it has flown," laughed Dunstan.

"Adventure, as a rule, comes only when you are not looking for it," commented Don. "Fellows, I will now give an illustration of how the count's guests didn't act when they entered the château."

And, with a laugh, Don bounded up the grand stairway two steps at a time.

A race speedily developed, and no doubt had the stern and dignified Count de Morancourt been present he would have viewed the spectacle with considerable astonishment and indignation. But there were no haughty personages to cast a damper upon the spirits of the Americans, because it very soon developed, "beyond the peradventure of a doubt," as Dunstan expressed it, that there was no one besides themselves within the château. "Unless," he added, "he should have taken refuge in the tower."

"Nothing easier than to find out!" chuckled Don. "Though"—he spoke rather thoughtfully—"it wouldn't be a very pleasant place in which to meet a revolver face to face."

As usual, he took the lead, and presently, in single file, they were ascending the circular staircase which led to the top of the tower. And as no other sounds but the echoes of their own footfalls and voices were heard within the gloomy walls they quite resigned themselves to the thought that their mission had been a failure.

"Very well! But the meeting is only postponed," declared Chase, with a snap of his jaw.

"We must demonstrate, to 'Peewee's' satisfaction at least, that that part of the story will come to an end," laughed Don.

At each of the narrow, iron-barred windows the three paused a moment to make an observation. Arriving at the top, they looked carefully over the edge of the broken wall. The view, very charming and beautiful by the light of the moon, was equally so enveloped in the hazy sunlight. Patches of timber and hills and valleys were spread out before their eyes. It was vast and impressive, with the far distant slopes scarcely seen against the brilliant sky. Here and there little clusters of ruined buildings marked the sites of former villages. Faint whitish lines, glimpses of roads, ran in this direction and that. They could make out, too, both the French and German trenches and hear the occasional cracking of rifles, which showed that the countryside was not so deserted as it seemed. But once again the famous "No Man's Land" aroused their greatest interest. Through Dunstan's binocular the field of ripening grain which flourished upon its sinister surface was plainly visible, still waving and rippling in the capricious breeze.

"Magnificent!" exclaimed the art student. "There's only one thing that prevents me from making a sketch."

"What's that?" asked Chase.

"The danger of being discovered by the Germans," chuckled Dunstan.

"My, what a jolly fine park this is!" broke in Don. "There's the fountain we saw the other night." He turned the field-glass upon it. "Crickets! Through this it seems just as if I were standing right beside it. Say, fellows, the guns are still pounding away in a pretty lively fashion."

"When aren't they?" demanded Chase.

"And look—look!—A shell-burst! My, my! What a whopper!"

"That's not a very unusual sight," commented the art student dryly.

"No; it's almost impossible to glance in any direction without seeing a cloud of smoke just above the ground," declared Chase. "And though it seems like peace itself up here in the tower, amidst this balmy sunshine, in reality it is a terribly dangerous position. Better not test the laws of chance too far."

"Quite correct!" assented Dunstan. "Hello!—a German observation balloon!"

Hazy and indistinct in the distance, it rose by slow degrees against the sky, and then, gently swaying from side to side, remained in a stationary position.

"That's mighty interesting!" cried Don. "We'll each take a look and then skip."

Never forgetting the absolute necessity for using the greatest caution, Don turned his glass on the balloon. He gave a little gasp of astonishment. By the aid of the powerful binocular he could even see the observers in the basket suspended beneath the great, unwieldy monster, and in his eyes those faint and tiny specks assumed a most tremendous interest and importance. It was not very often, he reflected, that Germans were seen as foemen, at liberty and engaged in their work.

And while he was studying them intently there came an interruption—a most startling interruption, and one which brought a cry of the greatest astonishment and alarm from the lips of every one. It was a bright spurt of flame in the midst of a patch of trees close to the château and a frightful, deafening detonation which jarred and shook the tower in the most violent fashion.

The trees instantly vanished, and where they had been rose a huge and cyclonic mass of black smoke mixed with earth, branches and stones—a terrifying spectacle indeed.

Like a flash, the ambulanciers realized the awful truth—the Château de Morancourt was once more being shelled.

## CHAPTER XXI

### A DISCOVERY

Almost stunned by the suddenness of the event, the three nevertheless realized that they had probably brought it upon themselves. Their movements must have been observed by the German airmen, who, perhaps thinking that the ancient château was again going to be used as an observation post, had reported the fact.

"We'd better get out of here the fastest ever," yelled Don.

Then a wild dash for safety was on. Down the winding stairway they clattered, sometimes taking two or three steps at a time. If fear lent wings to their feet, their very disregard of the fear of tumbling served to prevent such a catastrophe.

In these thrilling instants Don Hale could not help recalling their experiences with the French artillery officer; he remembered the deadly accuracy of the fire, and how the wireless station had disappeared in a cloud of smoke and dust. He could hear the captain saying, "Inscribe the elements." No doubt some German officer would be giving exactly the same command in a few minutes, when the range of the château had been found.

In a panic of fear, the ambulanciers rushed out of the tower, and, like hares fleeing before the hunter, continued down the grand stairway. And scarcely had the three reached the foot when they heard another frightful roar. The building gave a sudden lurch, the violence of which sent them staggering, tumbling in all directions. Then the resounding din of smashing glass—of falling débris filled the air. Momentarily they expected the walls to come crashing down upon them. Each experienced a feeling of awful helplessness, as, with half stifled cries, they picked themselves up and made a concerted dash through the various apartments toward the window.

One after another, they fairly hurled themselves over the sill and landed in a heap on the ground.

Up they were in a second and off again, running wildly—desperately—trying to get out of the line of fire. Feelings of hope and hopelessness coursed through them, as, panting and breathless from their exertions, they plunged ahead almost abreast.

But before a distance of seventy-five feet had been covered there came a third detonation—a horrible, crashing, stupendous roar, so terrible in its character that it could only have been made by a very much larger projectile than the others.

The ambulanciers were lifted off their feet and hurled violently to the ground.

Don Hale's pale, fear-stricken face was turned toward the château, and, although partially dazed by the shock, his faculties remained sufficiently clear for him to see what was taking place. Above an enormous, swirling cloud of inky smoke rose the tower of the ancient château. It was beginning to lean. It was shaking.

Unable to regain sufficient control over his trembling nerves to rise, Don Hale, quite breathless, almost spellbound, kept his gaze fixed upon it.

Grandly—majestically, as though even at the end of its existence it must be worthy of the noble building to which it belonged, the tower slowly began to topple, and the boy presently saw it go crashing downward with a thunderous and muffled roar.

Then, as the wreckage piled over the ground, a vast, whirling column of dust mingled with the smoke, and through it all jagged and broken walls could be faintly discerned.

Don Hale again tried to regain his feet, but his limbs refused to support him.

Dunstan and Chase were lying almost flat on the ground, their faces ashen and drawn, and they too had been witnesses of the catastrophe. Don gained sufficient command over himself to struggle up, and was about to resume his flight when a fourth mighty, echoing blast resounded.

Shaken and jarred off his feet, he again fell back to the earth with a half articulate cry, gasping for breath. He looked toward the château. The massive walls were tumbling and crashing inward and outward. The dull roars, as débris piled upon débris, were terrific, and before they had ceased Don Hale saw the black smoke swirling in front of the building and completely hiding it from view.

And a few seconds later the mass hurled aloft by the explosion began descending all about the ambulanciers. Pieces of stone landed only a few yards from Don and sent the turf flying in his face. A few terrible instants passed before he quite realized that the danger from the deadly rain of missiles was over. Once more they had actually escaped a peril from which it had seemed that there could be no escape.

A great body of low-hanging smoke and dust rolling slowly over the ground soon shut from his eyes every vestige of the surroundings. Coughing and gasping from the fumes, he scrambled to his feet, and, though weak and shaky, managed to stagger away. No obscurity of fog could ever have been so dense as that in which he found himself. Like a blind man groping his way, the boy sought to get beyond its choking reach, and by the sound of footsteps close at hand he knew that Dunstan and Chase were making the same desperate efforts as himself.

Suddenly the faint light struggling to pierce the obscurity brightened. A few yards more, and, almost overcome, Don Hale emerged into the glorious sunshine.

His first thought was for his companions. Yes, they too were all right. But he had not yet recovered sufficiently from the suffocating effects of the smoke to speak. His brain was still whirling with a jumble of confused thoughts and impressions, and uppermost among them was the unpleasant reflection that perhaps they might have been responsible for the destruction of the grand old Château de Morancourt. Ah, indeed, Dunstan had been mistaken—there was something interesting in this part of the story.

The boys staggered along with all the strength they could command, but no other shells landed in the vicinity.

It was Chase Manning who finally broke the silence.

"I say, fellows," he called, in a voice which trembled, "I thought I heard a noise somewhere. Did you?"

"Where? What did it sound like?" asked Don, faintly.

"Not a hundred miles away; and it seemed to fill the whole world. I say, Dunstan, how are you feeling?"

"Kind of mixed," grinned Dunstan; "but very thankful to be still here on earth—a most unexpected privilege, I can assure you. Boys, I don't think we need continue our flight. Look!" He waved his hand toward the building. "The Germans have made a mighty good job of it."

"Yes; and having done so I don't believe they'll send any more marmites in this direction," declared Don. "What a thriller that was!"

"No words in any language could ever begin to describe it," said Chase shudderingly. "What a sight!"

It was indeed a melancholy-looking spectacle upon which the three grave-faced ambulanciers were gazing. Of the once great and stately structure there remained but a few bits of scarred, unsightly walls, and the surrounding ground was covered with a vast collection of wreckage, all showing the fearful force of the explosions. The impenetrable black smoke had thinned out, though a haze still hovered over the ruins, to soften their ugly and forbidding aspect.

Though feeling quite sure that no immediate danger existed, the boys, to be on the safe side, withdrew to a point some distance away. They were troubled in mind. Had the airplane observer seen them? Had they not visited the château it might still have been standing.

"What is to be done?" asked Chase.

"Make a report of the matter, of course," declared the aviator's son.

"We have perhaps merely hastened its end," remarked Dunstan. "Just think of all that magnificence gone—swept away in a few moments of time! I wonder what the Count de Morancourt would think!"

"I am mighty glad he isn't here to express an opinion," put in Chase, dryly.

"And the 'mysterious poilu' might have a few observations to make," suggested Don, in a reflective tone.

"I can't say that I'm so very anxious now to have that third meeting," admitted Chase.

"We'll have to accept the situation philosophically and hope that others may do the same," declared the art student, his brow wrinkled with disturbing thoughts. "It's not the first time that good intentions have brought about disastrous results."

"No," said Don, thoughtfully.

Somehow or other the ambulanciers felt disinclined to leave the spot. The sight of the ruins held a strange and peculiar fascination for their eyes. It was very hard for them to realize that they would never again see the grand old Château de Morancourt or tread its great apartments. The variety of emotions which had assailed all three left them in a depressed and uncomfortable frame of mind. They could not help wondering, too, what the authorities might have to say.

"Fellows, suppose we get a look at a little closer range," suggested Don Hale, finally.

"You'll not find me afraid to follow your lead," declared Dunstan, with a faint smile.

"Lightning isn't apt to strike twice in the same place," said Chase.

Carefully scanning the sky to see that no airplanes were in the immediate vicinity, the three began to retrace their steps.

Very soon they were climbing over great heaps of débris. The wreck and ruin were almost complete. Now they came across pieces of ornaments which had once contributed to the beauty of the interior. From a torn canvas a head of one of the ancient and noble De Morancourts seemed to stare at them with a stern and reproachful glance.

With mingled feelings of sadness and regret, they pursued their investigations. Here and there the three came across bits of marble and stained glass or portions of shattered doors and furniture. Sometimes they peered over the edge of a jagged wall, to look into an interior wherein traces of chaos and magnificence lay side by side.

The ambulanciers conversed but little; they felt in too solemn and serious a mood. Suddenly, however, Don made a discovery which brought about a change in their demeanor. Close outside the wall an immense opening in the ground had been torn. Of course there was nothing in that to be wondered at; but what Don Hale saw was something more than a huge crater. A tunnel-like passageway had been uncovered, the bottom lying perhaps twenty feet below the surface.

"Hello! What in the dickens is that!" he cried.

"We must find out," said Chase, viewing the opening with considerable astonishment.

"It may be some secret passageway," put in Dunstan, excitedly. "Upon my word, this is a mighty interesting development!"

"I should say it is," exclaimed Don Hale, and having uttered these words with much conviction, he began hastily climbing over the wreckage. The broken, uneven surfaces leading downward afforded a good foothold, and thus he was able to make his way to the bottom without much trouble.

"Yes sir, it's a subterranean passageway," he called to the others, who were sliding and slipping down the incline. "Now we'll see what's ahead of us."

With Chase and Dunstan at his heels, he plunged boldly through a wide and spacious passageway which led directly away from the building.

"I'll bet I was right, fellows!" cried Dunstan. "This is probably a secret passageway connected with the basement. I suppose in the old feudal times, when law and order weren't so much in fashion as they are to-day, such places were often mighty convenient."

"You bet!" agreed Don.

He brought out his flash-light, for the passageway ahead was becoming dim and somber. A click of the instrument, and the white rays streaked the walls and floor with a series of fantastic flashes.

Their interest and curiosity highly aroused, the three ambulanciers pushed slowly ahead, and after covering a distance of many yards discovered an open doorway.

"Aha!" cried Dunstan, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. "Lead on, Monsieur le torch-bearer."

"Nobody could stop me," grinned Don.

"Be a little careful now," cautioned Chase, as the aviator's son stood at the threshold. "There may be some deep pit in there. You don't want to take a tumble."

But as Don thrust the light inside he saw nothing to warrant any such fear. Before his eyes was a great square apartment, the ceiling supported by massive pillars. Its appearance did not suggest a dungeon, however, but rather a well-built room. It was furnished, too, with a table and several chairs, while against the walls were piled numerous handsome picture frames and ornaments of many different kinds.

"Well, what do you think of this!" cried Don, in astonishment. "Who could have ever suspected that such a place existed?"

"A whole lot of people never did, I suppose," said Dunstan.

"To me it suggests a retreat where plotters, in comfort and seclusion, could plan dark deeds," commented Chase, and as he spoke in a loud tone his voice echoed and reëchoed in a most startlingly weird fashion.

The boys thought there was something very strange and unique in the situation. Here they were, exploring a mysterious underground room, and while Don Hale's light flashed and crisscrossed through the intense blackness and objects momentarily tumbled into view and out again, they speculated as to who had been the last person to visit it.

"Let's make a hasty exploration of the whole place before spending any time in here," suggested Dunstan.

"A good idea," agreed Don. "I say, if we were to all yell together wouldn't it sound just like an exploding marmite?"

"Please don't remind me of 'em," pleaded Chase.

Preceded by the "torch-bearer," they filed out into the "subway," as Don termed the passageway, and walking a short distance came across another room, situated, however, on the opposite side. But the ambulanciers, desirous of finding out where the corridor led, did not enter.

Their curiosity was quickly gratified. At the end they discovered a third room—the largest of all, and though bare of furnishing, the light immediately disclosed the fact that it was by no means empty. Neatly piled against the four walls were great numbers of boxes and cases of all sixes.

"Hello, what's in those, I wonder!" cried Don.

"I can't offer any explanation," replied Chase, dryly.

"A little investigation, however, wouldn't come amiss," declared Dunstan. "It strikes me, fellows, that these things are here because somebody had particular reasons for wishing to keep them out of sight."

"Well, he certainly succeeded, all right," declared young Manning.

"Then, of course, they are probably of some value," cried Don. "I say, Dunstan"—a sudden idea had flashed into his mind—"I wonder—I wonder——"

"What?" demanded the art student.

"If—if——" Don, pausing again, began to laugh. "No—no—that's absurd!"

Walking forward, he began to examine several of the boxes, while Dunstan and Chase peered earnestly over his shoulder.

"Aha! If they don't contain pictures I'm pretty badly mistaken!" cried the art student, suddenly. Excitement was in his tone. "By George, Don, having guessed your meaning, I'm beginning to wonder myself if——Hello!—by all that's wonderful, just look at that name!" Dunstan's voice almost rose into a shout. "Great Julius Cæsar! Astounding—astounding! Just think of it—Giovanni Bellini!"

Now the name of Giovanni Bellini, which the art student pronounced with a degree of earnestness that almost suggested a feeling of awe, meant very little to either Don or Chase, neither of whom were especially interested in artistic matters, but nevertheless the excitement displayed by the art student at once communicated itself to them.

"Do you really think it's possible that the mystery of the Château de Morancourt is solved at last?" cried Don, his voice quivering with suppressed eagerness, his eyes open to their widest extent, while Chase, staring with considerable curiosity at the name of Giovanni Bellini, murmured:

"What a marvelous thing it would be!"

"I'll give you my opinion in a few minutes," burst out Dunstan, who was acting in a manner totally unlike his usually calm self. "Quick, Don—your light! Let me see the name on this case—quick, I say!"

And as the illumination played across the one he indicated the art student rose to his feet and waved his hand in the air, at the same time uttering a loud hurrah, which made wild echoes ring and reverberate throughout the room.

"Fellows, in my opinion the mystery is solved!" he exclaimed. "The name I have just seen is Andrea Mantegna, a most celebrated artist born in Padua, Italy, in fourteen thirty-one. His works are priceless. By Jove, fellows, I honestly believe the tale we have to tell is going to create even more excitement than we dreamed. Ha, ha! I can almost see our pictures in the papers. Monsieur le torch-bearer, I believe your light has been the means of lighting our way to fame."

"I—I can scarcely believe all this is real!" cried Don.

Almost feverishly, the three examined case after case, and these names, one by one, fell from Dunstan Farrington's lips:

"Hobbema, Hans Holbein, Franz Hals, Velasquez, Ribera."

And with each word the art student's voice became louder—his excitement greater.

"A most remarkable and unexpected sequel to the great event!" he cried. "Boys, there is a finis to the story, after all—and what a grand, dramatic one! I wonder—I wonder what 'Peewee' will have to say!"

Seating themselves on convenient boxes, the ambulanciers, full of strange, pent-up emotions, continued to converse in eager, animated tones. A remarkable change had come over the feelings of every one. Now, instead of being disturbed and distressed, they were happy—almost exultant.

Suddenly Don Hale leaped to his feet and exclaimed:

"Listen—listen! There's somebody coming."

The others ceased speaking, and a strange, oppressive silence seemed to hover over the chamber.

Then, almost instantly, there came sounds which indicated that several people were approaching along the passageway.

"We are discovered!" exclaimed Dunstan, grim humor in his tone. "Ah, fellows, our sensational exploit must be revealed to a gaping world sooner than we expected!"

Simultaneously, the three sprang to their feet and made for the doorway.

Beyond the beams of Don Hale's flash-light the passageway was illuminated by the yellow glow of a lantern carried by the leader of a dim and shadowy group.

Anxiously—expectantly—the ambulanciers waited, while the sound of voices, steadily growing louder, echoed through the subterranean retreat.

And one of them made Chase Manning give a loud gasp of surprise.

"Well, well, can you beat that!" he exclaimed, clutching Don Hale tightly by the arm.

"Who is it?" asked Don. But the question needed no answer from Chase. For at that moment the lantern, swung high, illuminated the face of the man who carried it, and the boys recognized the "mysterious poilu."

## CHAPTER XXII

### THE TREASURE

But the astonishment of the boys was not nearly so great as that of the poilu, who held the lantern aloft so as to permit its yellow glare to fall full upon the Red Cross men; it was a moment or two, indeed, before he found his voice.

And, while the two groups stared intently toward one another, he broke the profound silence by exclaiming harshly:

"You here again! Didn't I expressly order you to keep away!" Advancing, he peered menacingly into Chase Manning's face. "Your persistency in coming here is quite remarkable. Now, perhaps you will answer a few questions."

"Go ahead," exclaimed Chase, defiantly.

A number of soldiers crowded about the four. Upon their faces picturesque flashes of light stood out against deep, somber shadows, which lost themselves in the background like a painting of some old Dutch master.

"Where were you when the Germans started to bombard the château?"

"In the tower," replied Chase, shortly.

This answer created a sensation. A murmur of loud and excited voices was immediately heard, while the interrogator, giving a perceptible start, almost shouted:

"In the tower, you say? Why—this is most extraordinary!" His fists were clenched. His eyes gleamed. "And do you know if your presence was suspected by the Germans?"

This question, couched in the harshest tones, added to the feelings of wrath which Chase, as well as his fellow ambulanciers, was beginning to experience. As though a challenge had been hurled at him and accepted, Chase replied:

"Yes, Monsieur, I believe it must have been."

This frank answer, received with gasps of astonishment, had a most extraordinary effect upon the "mysterious poilu."

He appeared about to hurl himself bodily upon the ambulanciers. It was a thrilling and dramatic moment.

Then, amid a chorus of noisily resounding voices, Don Hale spoke up.

"I fear the truth is that we were discovered in the grounds by a German airman," he said.

"You saw the machine, then?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And it never occurred to you, I suppose, that if the Germans detected any signs of life about the château they would certainly bombard it?"

"My answer to your question, Monsieur, is that we got out of sight the instant we saw the plane."

"But by that time you had probably already been observed."

"I should say it is quite certain that they were," broke in a French lieutenant.

Like a lawyer conducting an examination, he began asking questions, and after becoming acquainted with all the details, like a lawyer summing up, he showed as conclusively as it could be shown under the circumstances that the boys were responsible for the destruction of the château.

Just before he finished speaking the poilu raised his arm, and, with a gesture that embraced all three Americans, cried in a terrible voice:

"And, as a De Morancourt—the nephew of the count—I order your arrest. Lieutenant, take these young men in charge! They shall be made to pay the penalty for their conduct."

"The nephew of the Count de Morancourt!" repeated Don, quite aghast.

The revelation of the man's identity came as a stunning surprise.

The Frenchman's dramatic outburst appeared to relieve his pent-up wrath. The lantern which he held in his hand sent splotches and dashes of yellowish light flitting weirdly from place to place, and presently, noticing the boxes and cases, he uttered a loud exclamation, brushed past them and entered the room.

And the moment he discovered the names of the artists his whole manner abruptly changed.

"Get me a screw-driver! Ma foi!" he cried out hoarsely. "Can it be possible that my hopes, aroused to the highest pitch by the finding of this underground passageway, are to be realized!"

And in response to his peremptory command one of the poilus left the room almost on a run.

The atmosphere seemed surcharged with tense excitement. Every one was speaking at the same time, but the noise—the confusion—was so great that probably none understood what the others were saying.

Like a man almost overcome by his feelings, the nephew of the count sent the light flashing over the other boxes and cases, and exactly as the art student had been affected so was he. Every inscription he saw appeared still further to increase his emotion.

"If it should only be so!" he cried, in a strained voice, at length. "But we shall soon know. Will that man never come back, I wonder! Ah!"

The footsteps of the poilu in the passageway rapidly grew louder, and presently he walked into the room, exclaiming:

"Here it is, Monsieur de Morancourt; here it is!"

The nephew of the count seized the tool extended toward him, and, surrounded by an intensely eager and interested group, set to work unscrewing the cover of one of the boxes. A sudden hush settled over the room.

With a hand that trembled, the young man presently completed his task, and there was exposed to view a wonderful picture, centuries old—a picture, mellow and golden in tone, representing the Madonna and Child, and signed by the famous Italian artist Giovanni Bellini.

Monsieur de Morancourt was the first to speak.

"I feel confident all of the missing treasures are here," he declared. Once more his deportment was that of the calm, rather austere and elegant soldier whom Don, Dunstan and Chase had met in the Cheval Noir. "The whole aspect of the situation is now changed. This discovery has proved a wonderful solace to my disturbed feelings. Monsieur le Lieutenant, I countermand my order. Perhaps, after all, the château would sooner or later have been destroyed."

"I don't think there can be any doubt about that," said the lieutenant, who seemed vastly relieved.

Monsieur de Morancourt, extending his hand toward Chase, remarked, with a smile:

"Shall peace be declared between us, Monsieur l'Americaine?"

"By all means," acquiesced Chase, heartily.

"Strange how old Mars first of all got us in an awful pile of trouble and then helped us out again!" cried the delighted Don, as he and Dunstan, each in turn, shook hands with the now smiling Frenchman.

Good fellowship having been restored, the whole party, after a few moments' conversation, continued their exploration and investigation of the underground apartments and within a half hour it was demonstrated to the satisfaction of all that the mystery of the Château de Morancourt was certainly a thing of the past, for in the room which the boys had not entered the various objects of art were found, carefully packed.

At length they emerged into the open, and the boys immediately discovered a large military car standing on the road near by.

"It's the vehicle that brought us here," explained Monsieur de Morancourt. "I had been out and was returning to the Cheval Noir when the bombardment of the château began. Somehow suspecting the truth, I made an immediate investigation, and when my fears were verified, ran to the nearest encampment, where I was given authority to use the motor car, which is supplied with all sorts of tools for use in cases of emergency. And now, mes amis, I must hurry away to make arrangements for the removal of the valuables. Of course, during my absence, some of the soldiers will remain on guard. When shall I see you again?"

"We'd be delighted if you could visit us at the Hotel de la Palette," exclaimed Don Hale. He smiled. "Of course we too would be mighty glad to learn something about the Count de Morancourt and your connection with the affair."

"I am more than pleased to accept your invitation," said Monsieur de Morancourt, cordially. "You may count upon seeing me this evening. Au revoir, mes amis."

He waved his hand, and joined the lieutenant and the poilus.

"And so what promised to be a most unfortunate and unpleasant situation for us has turned out to be quite the reverse," commented Dunstan. "Boys, I reckon we'll never forget the Château de Morancourt, eh?"

And his companions heartily agreed that they never would.

## CHAPTER XXIII

### THE COUNT

That evening at the Hotel de la Palette, with the nephew of the Count de Morancourt as a guest of the ambulance section, was quite a memorable one. This time the story which Don, Dunstan and Chase related really did create a sensation.

"Honest to goodness, fellows, I always had a sort of hazy idea that there was going to be a sensational development," confessed "Peewee," "and——"

"It was certainly hazy enough, I'll wager," chortled Bodkins.

And he might have added a great deal more but for the fact that Monsieur de Morancourt was speaking.

"Before I begin my own explanations I should be glad to know all about your own experiences at the château," he declared, politely.

Thereupon Don Hale, ably assisted by Dunstan and Chase, gave a brief but graphic account of all that had taken place.

"It seems quite extraordinary," commented Monsieur de Morancourt, reflectively, when his curiosity was finally satisfied, "that but for your interest in regard to the mystery of the Château de Morancourt the objects so long sought for might have remained hidden for years."

Then, in a conversational tone, he began his story.

"Some time after the outbreak of the war I visited my uncle, the Count de Morancourt, at the château, and saw his great collection. He said nothing of his intention of leaving; indeed, it was long afterward that I learned of his departure for America. It seems that as the scene of war drew near to the château the count decided that it wouldn't be safe to remain any longer. Accordingly he dismissed all his servants but one, the latter his valet, and then, after attending to various matters, embarked for America. The military authorities had already begun to use the tower as an observation post.

"It came as a great surprise to me when I learned that no one knew what had become of his priceless collection of paintings. The fact naturally disturbed me very much indeed. I wrote several letters to my uncle, but whether they reached him or not I do not know; at any rate, no replies were ever received.

"At last I decided to do a little investigating on my own account, and, obtaining leave of absence, came on to this part of the country. Discovering the Cheval Noir, which was in a habitable condition, I concluded to make my headquarters there, but not wishing to be interfered with or bothered in any way did not choose to disclose my identity.

"I held this theory—there might be secret apartments under the old château, in which the count, with the assistance of his valet, had stored the valuables."

"And you certainly made a mighty good guess," declared Don.

"Yes; so it seems," replied Monsieur de Morancourt, with a smile. "I spent a great part of my time in the château searching for an entrance to the subterranean passageway. On the occasion of your first appearance I must have entered the building very soon after you. It was I who stumbled over the chair, and, naturally, I realized at once that it had been moved. Surmising the presence of some one, I merely waited until I heard you coming down-stairs and then walked outside.

"After your departure, I reëntered, and, wishing to see if anything had been disturbed, made a hasty examination—that explains the flashing light at the window."

"How very simple mysteries sometimes appear after one has learned all about them," laughed Don. "And maybe we wouldn't have been surprised at the Cheval Noir if we'd known that you were the very man responsible!"

"Well, rather!" chuckled Chase.

"And we never even had a suspicion of the truth," laughed Dunstan.

"I certainly was astonished to run into the mysterious visitors," declared Monsieur de Morancourt. And then addressing Chase, he added: "When you made your early morning call my presence is explained by the fact that I had spent the night in one of the upper rooms.

"Now, Messieurs, I believe there is nothing further to add to my story."

The ambulanciers all declared that it had been a very interesting one.

At length, in the midst of a general conversation and much levity and noise, Bodkins, holding his banjo aloft, shouted:

"I think that after all the disturbance these chaps have caused they ought to be made to face the music."

And as he began strumming the instrument even "Peewee" forgot to object.

It was a long time before the gathering broke up, and when Monsieur de Morancourt finally took his leave he said:

"I have heard a great deal about the exploits of this particular section of the Red Cross and fully expect that some day every one of you will be awarded the Croix de Guerre. And now, my young friend"—he turned to Don—"allow me to wish you very great success when you take up your new duties."

"So do we!" cried "Peewee." "I say, boys, three cheers and a tiger for Don Hale with the flying squadron!"

[1] Literally "hairy ones." The affectionate slang term that all France applies to its private soldiers.

[2] Blessé: a wounded man.

[3] Marmite: a large shell.

[4] Poste de secours: surgical first aid station.

[5] En repos: off duty—"at rest."

[6] "Show your passes, gentlemen, please."

[7] Snipers: sharpshooters.

[8] Mechant: wicked.

[9] Camion: truck.

[10] Bureau; office.

[11] "Gone West": been killed.

[12] Tir de barrage: a barrage fire, or bombardment by which shells are placed close together along a certain line, so as to form there a barrier against advancing troops.

### The Stories in this Series are:

DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONE

DON HALE OVER THERE

DON HALE WITH THE FLYING SQUADRON (in press)

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON HALE OVER THERE ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

> This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.