"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.
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.
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.
A RED CROSS CAR WAS COMING.
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.
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?"
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.
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.