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Page 111
He heard a noise over his head, a mixture of a whistle and a scream, and
he knew that a shell was passing high. He walked on, and heard another.
But they could not be firing at him. He was still that mere mote in the
infinite darkness, but, looking back for the bursting of the shells, he
saw a blaze leap up near the point from which he had come.
A cold shiver seized him. The range was that of the ch�teau, and Julie
was there. The French gunners could have no knowledge that their own
people were prisoners in the building, and if one of those huge shells
burst in it, ruin and destruction would follow. The conservatory had
been a silent witness of what flying metal could do. He stopped,
appalled. He had been wrong to leave without Julie, and yet he could
have done nothing else. It was impossible to foresee a shelling of the
ch�teau by the French themselves.
The screaming and whistling came again, but he did not see any
explosion near the ch�teau. One could not tell much from such a swift
and passing sound, but he concluded that it was a German shell replying.
He had seen a German battery near the house and it would not remain
quiet under bombardment.
He had no doubt that the French gunners, having got the range, would
keep it. Somebody, perhaps an aeroplane or an officer with flags in a
tree, was signaling. It was horrible, this murderous mechanism by which
men fired at targets miles away, targets which they could not see, but
which they hit nevertheless. Every pulse beating hard, John shook his
fist at the invisible German guns and the invisible French guns alike.
Then he recovered himself with an angry shake and began to run again. He
knew now that he must go forward and secure a French force for rescue.
But no matter how much he urged himself on, a great power was pulling at
him, and it was Julie Lannes, a prisoner of the Germans in the ch�teau.
Often he stopped and looked back, always in the same direction. Twice
more he saw shells burst in the neighborhood of the house, and then his
heart would beat hard, but after brief hesitation he would always pursue
his course once more toward the French army.
He did not know the time, but he believed it to be well past midnight.
He had his watch, but his immersion in the fish pond had caused it to
stop. Still, the feel of the air made him believe that he was in the
morning hours. Shells continued to pass over his head, and now they
came from many points. He had seen or heard so much firing in the last
eight or ten days that the world, he felt, must be turned into a huge
ammunition factory to feed all the guns. He laughed to himself at his
own grim joke. He was overstrained and he began to see everything
through a red mist.
His clothing was drying fast, but his throat was very hot from
excitement and exertion. He came to a little brook, and kneeling down,
drank greedily. Then he bathed his face and felt stronger and better.
His nerves also grew steadier. There was not so much luminous mist in
the atmosphere. Ahead of him the crash of the guns was much louder, and
he knew that he had already come a long distance. It seemed that the
passing of the storm had renewed the activity of the gunners. The mutter
had become rolling thunder, and both to north and south the searchlights
flared repeatedly.
He heard the beat of hoofs, and he hoped that they were French cavalry
on patrol, but they proved to be German Hussars, Bavarians he judged by
the light blue uniforms, and they were coming from the direction of the
French lines. They had been scouting there, he had no doubt, but they
passed in a few moments, and, leaving his hedge, he resumed his own
rapid flight, continually hoping that he would meet some French force,
scouting also.
But he was doomed to a long trial of patience. Twice he saw Germans and
hid until they had gone by. They seemed to be scouting in the night
almost to the mouths of the French guns, and he admired their energy
although it stood in the way of his own plans. He came to a second
brook, drank again, and then took a short cut through a small wood. He
had marked the reports of guns from a hill about two miles in front of
him, and he was sure that a French battery must be posted there. He
reckoned that he could reach it in a half hour, if he exerted himself.
Half way through the wood and human figures rose up all about him.
Strong hands seized his arms and an electric torch flashed in his face.
"Who are you?" came the fierce question in French.
But it was not necessary for John to answer. The man who held the torch
was short, but very muscular and strong, his face cut in the antique
mold, his eyes penetrating and eager. It was Bougainville and John gave
a gasp of joy. Then he straightened up and saluted:
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