"ONE CAN'T EXPECT TOO MUCH."
"ONE CAN'T EXPECT TOO MUCH."
"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.
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.
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.
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!'"
"'Behold yon tower;Mark well those crumbling walls—Those silent chroniclers of years gone by,Of tyranny and tears!'"
"'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.
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!"