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patrolling the woods about the castle. The lawns were easily
watched from the summer-houses or from the château. For one
desperate minute retreat suggested itself to Lucy’s mind. But self-
reproach and anger mounted swifter than the thought took shape,
and she knew that her purpose remained undaunted. All courage
aside, she was as afraid to turn back as to go on; to make her way
to the town again, confessing failure and facing the certainty of her
father’s departure. As that realization swept over her, she crept up to
a pine tree, and leaning against its base, searched feverishly for
some way to go on.
The château! That was a part of the line of defense, and to pass
through it would be to pass the trenches. However full of unknown
perils it might be, she thought she could face them better there than
in this gloomy and terrifying wood. But here difficulties again
confronted her. Was the château inhabited? She had seen no lights,
but surely the sentries would be likely to take refuge in it from the
storm. Could she possibly get through that great building unseen,
since not a step of the way would be familiar? But think as she
would no other solution came to her. Even in her dark dress she
dared not try to cross the open lawns. The wind was bending the
pliant pine boughs in every direction, and some of them struck
against her as she rose to her feet and started back the way she had
come. In a few minutes she paused uncertainly, for she no longer
felt the path beneath her feet. Fearful of completely losing her way,
she turned directly toward the château and presently came out at
the edge of the lawn not far from the avenue. The château was
approached by a drive winding up the gentler slope on the side of
the hill toward the town. This road became the pine-bordered
avenue that ran over the lawns, offering Lucy shelter from near
where she stood to the terrace at the rear of the building.
A flash of lightning cut through the dark clouds as she reached the
avenue. By that flash she saw the road stretching empty before her.
She began running, oblivious to prowling sentries, the only sounds in
her ears the sigh of the swaying branches on each side and the
distant rumbling thunder. In five minutes she stopped, panting, a
few yards from the terrace at the back of the château. Long French
windows opened on to it, but their glass had long ago been
shattered, and in the wind the neglected shutters were banging to
and fro. Lucy stole up the steps of the terrace, and, approaching one
of the windows, flattened herself against the wall and glanced back
about the lawns and gardens. By the lake the sentry was still pacing.
She could see the faint gleam of his bayonet as he moved. But he
had not discovered her. No other sentry was in sight, so far as she
could pierce the shadows. She turned to the window and peeped
cautiously through. Darkness reigned within, and the wind, whistling
through the rooms, made the heavy hangings against the walls flap
like sails in a storm. With a quick sigh that was something like a
gasp at thought of the unknown dangers before her, Lucy stepped
through the window, shrinking from the jagged edges of the broken
glass that caught at her hands and clothing.
Inside, she stopped for a second, making sure of her direction,
then moved on through the room, feeling every step of the way and
more than once narrowly avoiding a collision with some piece of
furniture in her path. She reached the opposite side and saw an
open doorway leading onward. Beyond it was a large hall or
drawing-room, for at the far end were windows, and the lightning
playing against them showed the vast interior, filled with the débris
of broken furniture, but quite deserted. Enormously relieved, Lucy
started quickly forward, urged by a rising hope of success. In her
impulsive haste she ran full against a stool or small table. Startled,
she sprang back, and the object, flung aside by her sudden
movement, fell to the floor with a noise that echoed through the
building. Almost with the sound a door was thrown open somewhat
on her right. As she stood frozen to the spot with horror, a candle
shone out of the darkness and a loud, commanding voice shouted,
“Wilhelm! Wilhelm!”
Scarcely were the words spoken when Lucy, recovering her power
of motion, fled across the room, glancing wildly about her for some
way out. The windows in front were raised from the floor, and she
dared not try to climb through one and risk showing herself against
a glare of lightning. On her left she dimly saw an open doorway.
With pounding heart she darted to it, and, arms outstretched before
her, passed through the opening, down a corridor, and found herself
before an arched entrance lighted by a faint red glow.
The room beyond, into which she ran, mortal fear of what lay
behind driving her on, was huge and lofty, with narrow, pointed
windows whose leaded panes were imitated in the glass doors of the
countless bookcases which lined the walls. The fire which gave light
to see burned faintly in a massive marble chimney-place and was
mostly fed by some of the priceless books torn from these very
shelves. Before the chimney were several pots and kettles, and other
evidences that the fire was used by the sentries to cook their food,
since an abundance of fuel lay close at hand in the thousands of
volumes the library contained. They were strewn all over the
polished floor, and Lucy stumbled over them as she stopped in the
middle of the room, looking desperately around her for some place
of concealment or escape.
There were no hangings on the walls and the bookcases seemed
to offer no safe hiding-place. She approached the chimney, with a
vague idea of crouching behind its shadowy columns. By the
flickering firelight the motto cut into the marble caught her eyes: En
avant pour le droit.
 SHE APPROACHED THE CHIMNEY

But now, hearing no sound of pursuit, her terrified mind regained

a little power of thought. She stole over toward the windows on the
right, one of which was entirely shattered. Fearful of listening ears
she moved with infinite caution, and reaching the window, stood
aside from it to peer out on to the terrace and lawns in front of the
château. A clearing had been cut in the trees that crowned the
hilltop, to open a view of the valley below. Just now the trees were
only dark blotches framing a stormy sky. Lucy drew back after one
swift glance. A sentry was walking across the lawn beyond the
terrace. Struggling with the confusion that began to take possession
of her, she looked toward the windows at the far end of the room. At
that moment heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor, with the gruff
murmur of conversation between two advancing men. Then the
voice from which she had fled, raised more angrily than before
against the increasing noise of the wind, shouted:
“Wilhelm! Wilhelm! Sehen sie!”
There were no two ways open. As the Germans entered the library
Lucy slipped through the broken window, and dropping on her hands
and knees, crawled along the stone terrace, over a broad parapet of
sand-bags rising in her way, until she reached the lawn. That voice
had been heard beyond the château walls, for as, shaking with fear,
she looked back to where the sentry paced, she saw the man
running up the steps of the terrace toward the library windows.
Without waiting for more she rose to her feet and ran like a deer to
the crest of the hill, where it sloped down to the valley. She was well
ahead of the precipitous rocks down which Captain Beattie had
planned his descent. She made for the gentler declivity in front,
dodging about a big raised platform that was a German gun-
emplacement. As she crossed the clearing, which opened like a little
amphitheatre in the woody hillside, a marble summer-house set in
the centre, big raindrops began to fall. Lightning glared from the
heavy storm-clouds and the rumbling thunder was succeeded by a
tremendous peal. Then the pine trees swallowed her up, and she
began to feel her way among the trunks, which bent and groaned
about her in the fierce gusts of wind.
Whether the front of the hill was guarded below the crest Lucy
had no idea. Even had she known there were sentries about her she
could have done nothing else than press on, panting, in the windy
darkness, the growing downpour of rain penetrating the branches
and striking on her head and shoulders. Now and again the lightning
shone on her path, revealing the rough, wet trunks and writhing
green boughs around her, and the thunder, crashing overhead,
drowned the incessant noise of the wind and rain. The storm had
become the only enemy against which she struggled as, step by
step, she fought her way down the slope. At last, when a strong
blast of wind showed her she was nearing the open, a flash of
lightning disclosed the gleaming wet swamp and the level ground
around it at the base of the hill.
Beneath the last pine tree Lucy flung herself on the ground to
catch her breath. She was drenched from head to foot. With wet
fingers she felt inside her dress to see that Captain Beattie’s precious
paper was safely held in its scrap of canvas and protecting
handkerchief. Reassured, she pushed her dripping hair from her face
and stared out over the swamp. She knew that great obstacles were
still before her. But she had burned her bridges. To retreat through
the château was unthinkable.
In a few minutes the rain and wind began to diminish, and the
clouds overhead parted, turning from black to gray. The lightning
became less frequent and the thunder sank to a sullen muttering.
Lucy studied the sky with deep anxiety. She was eager to have the
lightning cease, but knowing the uncertainty of summer storms, she
dreaded lest the clouds should drift entirely by and the moon appear,
while she was still before the enemy’s eyes. There was no time to
lose, and she had begun to fear that Wilhelm’s master might put the
men in the trenches on guard against the unknown intruder. She
sprang up and stepped out on level ground, and into the spongy,
yielding earth at the border of the marsh.
She knew that the trenches were close behind on her left, and a
shiver ran through her as her foot withdrew from the soaked ground
with a loud squelching noise. On a quiet night any sound might have
reached her from where the soldiers watched behind their defenses,
but in the rumbling thunder and the gusts of wind blowing away the
last of the rain she heard no sign of their presence. The reedy grass
came above her waist as she stooped forward, feeling her way along
the precarious footing, every nerve and muscle on the alert to
receive the warning of danger. An occasional backward glance at the
château towers rising above the gloom of the hill was her only
guide, for the plain stretched dimly in front until it was lost in
obscurity. Suddenly, with a frightened squawk, a big marsh-bird rose
with flapping wings from under her very feet. With loud cries at such
unexpected disturbance it fluttered over her head, and only settled
down once more when she had been reduced to abject terror.
Whether the keen ears behind her became suspicious at the bird’s
alarm, or whether the quieting of the storm made sounds more
clearly audible, Lucy at that moment heard a voice.
It came from the trenches, but what it said or ordered she had no
idea. It gave strength and speed to her tired and trembling limbs, so
that she fled on across the marsh nearly as fast as though she were
on dry and level ground. Her ankles ached unbearably, and her
beating heart hammered against her ribs when she stumbled on to a
little ridge of grassy ground just beyond the swampy bottom. With
stooping shoulders and head bent down she had no chance to see
ahead. Now she looked up and saw the dull gleam of water only a
few yards in front. With a sigh of utter weariness she dropped to the
wet earth and lay motionless.
A bright glow reflected in the waters of the pond made her start
up. She thought of lightning, but one glance showed her the
graceful, rocket-like form of a star-shell falling across the sky. It
came from the Allies’ lines. The French and Americans were on the
watch for any surprise attempted under cover of the cloudy
darkness. Lucy sank back to earth, a bitter reproach in her heart for
this friendly weapon discharged against her. The light sputtered out,
and with the return of darkness she sat up and struggled for
courage to go on. She drew Captain Beattie’s message from inside
her dress and tied the handkerchief around her forehead like a
close-fitting bandage. She felt doubtfully of her rubber soled
sneakers, and deciding they were too light to impede her progress,
crept forward to the edge of the pond.
At that moment a sound which she had heard a second before
and wondered at was unmistakably repeated. The Germans in the
trenches were replying to the star-shell with a scattering fire. The
shots were few and far apart, but Lucy heard one bullet sing over
her head, and that was enough. There is a courage that comes with
desperation, and it was this which caused her to crawl instantly
forward into the lake and strike out across it.
The cool water brought a welcome sense of refreshment and
cleared her whirling mind a little. She swam on strongly, trying hard
to make no sound and to keep her arms beneath the surface, and
searching the sky with frightened eyes, dreading to see another star-
shell flaring up. She heard no more shots behind her, and this
brought back a little hope. She struggled to keep the stroke even,
and not to hurry it, for the pond was at least one hundred feet
across, and she was burdened by her clothing. But to swim slowly
and calmly was too much for her. She could not resist bursts of
speed as, from the darkness behind, her straining ears imagined
every sort of approaching peril. When at last she neared the
opposite bank, her breath was coming in painful gasps and she was
dangerously near exhaustion. With a few more frenzied strokes she
managed to get within her depth, and in another moment crawled
weakly out on to the grassy field beyond.
She lay there on her back, a prayer of thankfulness on her lips,
though, as she untied the handkerchief from about her head, she
watched the sky with fresh anxiety. The clouds were rapidly
dispersing and a faint silvery gleam announced the moon’s coming.
She thought that in another quarter of an hour these level fields
would be flooded with moonlight, and she, too far from either line to
be closely distinguished, would be a target for both sides. But she
had to have breath to move, and for five minutes longer she lay
panting before she rose from the ground and began plodding wearily
on, her body bent forward and her feet stumbling over the little
grassy hummocks in her way. A line of dark objects, coming
suddenly into view, gave her a sickening pang of fear. But as she
crept up to them they proved to be only the stumps of what had
been a row of trees bordering a field. It seemed to Lucy that she
had struggled on for long miles through the darkness when all at
once the moon shone out in cloudy radiance. With a gasp she
stopped short, staring wildly before her. Not three hundred yards in
front a tangle of posts and barbed wire extended before the Allies’
trenches.
She was in plain sight, but at that moment even a bullet from her
own countrymen seemed better than what she had fled from so
long. She raised both arms above her head and walked straight on
toward the edge of the barbed wire, behind which showed the sand-
bagged parapet of the trenches. Rifle barrels glinted over the top
and a helmeted head popped into sight.
“F-friend!” stammered Lucy, her scared little voice sounding
strangely out of the night. “Don’t shoot! I’m an American!”
“It’s a woman—it’s a girl!” cried an astonished voice.
A dozen heads were raised above the trench, a murmur of voices
filled the air, and the next instant two soldiers had sprung over the
top and were running toward her. The first caught her by the arm
and drew her swiftly toward the trenches, saying:
“Through this way—here’s a lane in the wire!”
“But where on earth do you come from?” demanded the second,
slipping between her and the distant German lines.
“Just follow on now, as quick as you can!” urged her guide.
Lucy hardly heard them. She knew that she was led safely through
the wire, and that strong arms lifted her down inside the American
lines.
For a minute she was near to fainting, but the triumph filling her
heart cleared her brain and overcame her exhaustion. A light flashed
in front of her, and some one held a cup of water to her lips as she
sat on the fire-step of the trench and leaned panting against the
parapet. A dozen soldiers had crowded around her, expressing every
degree of pity, wonder and admiration. The next moment the light
revealed a sergeant hurrying along the trench, with an officer
following.
“Here she is, Lieutenant,” said the sergeant as they stopped at
Lucy’s side.
The lantern raised above Lucy’s head illumined her figure, as,
disheveled and drenching wet, she sat on the muddy fire-step. The
young officer’s astonished face was on a level with hers as he sank
down beside her, asking hurriedly:
“You’re an American? What on earth were you doing out there in
front of our lines?”
“In front of——?” Lucy repeated faintly. “Why, I came from behind
the German lines—I came from Château-Plessis.”
“From Château ——” The lieutenant’s words were lost in a cheer
that rang out deafeningly between the trench’s narrow walls.
Helmets were frantically waved in the air, and a dozen hands were
held out for Lucy’s grasp by the eager listeners about her. She felt
her face flush hot and her heart bound with happiness. It was true—
she had succeeded! It was hard to realize.
“She crossed the German lines!”
“That girl—all alone!”
“Be still—the Lieutenant wants to talk to her.”
The murmur died away as the officer, no less enthusiastic than his
men at that moment, inquired once more:
“You got over here from inside the town without being seen? You
deserve a war medal! What were you doing in Château-Plessis?”
“My father is there a prisoner. He’s Colonel Gordon. I had to
come,” Lucy answered, still breathless and somewhat incoherent.
Then she started forward from where she had leaned wearily against
the supporting timbers of the trench, saying earnestly, “I can’t tell
you the rest now. Where is the divisional commander? Will you take
me to him? I have news for him that mustn’t wait any longer, and I
am afraid he is a long way from here.”
“No—General Clinton is at a farm only five miles behind us—
between here and Cantigny. He has been inspecting along the line.
Of course you may see him,” the lieutenant added, rather puzzled,
“but must it be at once? You look used up, and the trip will be pretty
uncomfortable after all this rain. The roads are a sea of mud—not to
mention a walk through the trenches.”
Mud—discomfort—Lucy almost laughed aloud at his words. She
had seen a good deal of both that night, and what were they
compared to the anguish of mind she had borne in the past weeks?
She could endure any hardships now with this glorious hope flooding
her heart.
“I don’t mind how bad it is,” she said quickly. “I only want to see
the General as soon as I can.”
The young officer read the clear, eager purpose in her eyes and
gave a nod of consent. At his order a soldier led the way with
alacrity, lantern in hand, along the trench. Lucy rose and followed,
and the lieutenant came behind her, after stopping for a word with
the sergeant.
“We have half a mile to walk,” he told Lucy, pointing ahead along
the mud and water of the trench bottom.
She nodded, undismayed. The line of men standing behind their
rifles at the parapet, of whom many turned to her with looks of
astonishment and eager friendliness, were but dim figures that
seemed a half-waking dream. “They’re Americans. I’m with
Americans,” she repeated to herself, and the joy welling up at the
thought made her almost dizzy as she trudged along the wet,
slippery path.
It is at such moments that physical discomfort is hardly felt and,
weary though she was, Lucy did not suffer greatly during the long
hour’s journey. The tramp through the trenches was followed by a
ride in the bottom of a motor-truck, along a dark road that the rain
had transformed into a bog. The three passengers were flung from
side to side as the heavy wheels struggled through the ruts, or
careened into the deep gullies. The laboring motor stalled and
missed fire, and the moon, hidden again behind a cloud, gave no
light now when it was so sorely needed.
At last the truck reached drier ground, and stopped before a
lighted house in the middle of a grassy meadow. Mud-splashed and
bruised from the terrific jolting, Lucy was helped down, and the
young officer took hold of her arm and led her inside the door. In the
little hallway he left her to speak with an orderly, who preceded him
to an adjoining room. Lucy heard murmurs of conversation and,
beyond the doorway, saw a second officer standing, with papers in
his hand. She took out the handkerchief from inside her dress,
making also a futile effort to smooth her hair, which, drying during
the long ride, had begun to curl in a tangled mass about her head.
In another moment the young lieutenant who had brought her
returned, saying:
“Come right in, the General will see you.”
Lucy followed him into the anteroom, whose farther door the
other officer was holding open.
Beyond it a broad-shouldered man with iron-gray hair was seated
at a big desk under the electric light. His face was turned toward the
door, and as Lucy entered he rose sharply to his feet, saying with
quick earnestness, “You are Colonel James Gordon’s daughter? You
came from Château-Plessis?”
He put his hands on Lucy’s shoulders, fixing his eyes on hers.
“Yes, General,” Lucy answered with trembling eagerness. “I am
Lucy Gordon. I have been in Château-Plessis since before the
Germans took it. My father is there still.”
“You got through the enemy lines—you crossed over to us alone?”
the General insisted, his glance softening with pity and wonder as he
surveyed Lucy’s mud-stained and bedraggled figure, and the shining,
eager eyes in her tired face.
“Yes, I did; I had to. They are going to send Father into Germany,
and I couldn’t stay there and do nothing, when I thought I had a
chance to save him.”
“You have courage enough for anything! What can we do, though,
poor child—unless they will delay your father’s going for some days
longer? But tell me how on earth you got over here!”
“I brought you something that I know will help,” Lucy persisted,
and with shaking fingers she unfolded her handkerchief and laid the
precious slip of paper in General Clinton’s hands. “A British officer
who is a prisoner in Château-Plessis gave me this. He was captured
at Argenton, and that drawing shows what he learned of the
defenses.”
“The defenses of Argenton?” As the General spoke he sat down at
his desk with the paper quickly spread before him, and the two
young officers with one accord sprang to his side.
“The road is the fortified ridge. The soldiers are the batteries. He
explained it to me,” said Lucy, breathing fast.
The General wheeled about in his chair and looked at her with a
new light in his eyes. “You’ve done us a good turn, my little girl!” he
exclaimed, and reaching for Lucy’s hand he took it in a strong clasp.
“You are of the sort that will bring victory to America, and I’m proud
of you!”
Lucy’s heart was too full for words and her eyes filled up with
sudden, smarting tears. The two junior officers, seeing her emotion,
checked and cut short the burst of generous praise that rushed to
their lips.
Almost at once the General continued, “I must question you in
detail before any use can be made of this plan. Also, I must hear
how you got out of the town. But first I will let you dry your clothes
and rest a little. You have done enough for one night.”
 Lucy raised her head, dashing the tears from her eyes. “I can
answer any questions now, General Clinton,” she said quickly. “Do
you think I have come all this hard way, and almost died of fear, to
go and rest before telling you all I can? Don’t think of me, or
anything but learning what you want to know.”
Her firm, earnest voice, and the steady light in her eyes carried
reassurance and conviction. General Clinton gave a nod of
satisfaction, and his voice, as he ordered Lucy to take a seat beside
him, told her that her answers would hold a new weight and value in
his mind.
“My only fear,” he began, “in trusting to this plan you have
brought is that you may have been deceived by some sharp-witted
German knave. Who was this officer who gave you the information?”
“Captain Archibald Beattie of the Royal Infantry. He is a prisoner in
Château-Plessis.”
“Wheeler,” said the General, turning to his aide, “where is that
British liaison officer who was with us to-day? Could you get hold of
him?”
“Yes, sir, he is right in the other farm building,” said the aide,
saluting.
“Find one of our machine-gun officers, too,” the General added as
the lieutenant turned to leave. “Where did you see this Englishman?”
he continued, facing Lucy once more.
“The first time was when a German officer made me interpret for
him what Captain Beattie said, because I speak a little German. After
he was in the old town prison I used to see him through the bars of
his window. He gave me this plan in case I should ever be able to
send it to our lines. I missed two chances in succession, so there
was no way but to come myself.”
“What chances could you have had?”
“My brother Bob landed in Château-Plessis once, but that was
before I knew about the hidden guns at Argenton. Then a French
spy got into the town, but I failed that time, too.”
“Here they are, sir,” said the other lieutenant, going toward the
door.
Steps sounded outside and crossed the outer room. The aide
reappeared, with two officers behind him. One was a tall, handsome
Britisher about thirty years old, whose face was so strangely familiar
to Lucy that she stared at him wonderingly as his hand rose to the
salute. But the impression passed, for he bowed to her without
recognition. Before the General had more than spoken a word of
greeting, the second officer entered the room and stood at
attention. Then at sight of Lucy he gave a gasp of such surprise as
almost caused him to forget the General’s presence.
“Lucy! Lucy Gordon! You are free!” he cried.
The General looked up sharply. “You know her then? And you,
Miss Gordon?”
For Lucy had leaped to her feet to hold out both hands to the
young officer, her face all lighted up with joyful recognition.
“Oh, yes, General,” she stammered, struggling for words in her
happiness at sight of this long-lost friend, “it’s Captain Harding!”
“Well, Captain Harding, I congratulate you on your friend,” said
the General with a kindly smile. “This young lady crossed the
German lines to bring us this plan of the Argenton defenses. I will
ask you two gentlemen to give me your opinion on it.”
Making a respectful effort to hide his astonishment, and to silence
his unbounded admiration, Captain Harding bent, together with the
British officer, over the little paper on the General’s desk.
“Now, Miss Gordon, please tell us again about that British officer
who gave you this plan,” the General commanded.
“He is Captain Archibald Beattie, Royal Infantry, captured at
Argenton on May 17th,” Lucy repeated.
 “Beattie—Archibald Beattie!” exclaimed the British liaison officer. “I
know him, General; he is a prisoner now.”
“Yes, in Château-Plessis,” Lucy nodded. “He is young—about
twenty-one—with light brown hair and blue eyes, and a little scar on
his forehead.”
“Just so! He got that scar from a grazing bullet at Ypres. If this
plan is from him, sir, it’s trustworthy. Why, that’s his writing at the
bottom, ‘Changing the guard’!” The Britisher’s calm face had grown
flushed with excitement. “Then the group of men must represent
batteries?”
“Yes, so he told this young lady. What part of the ridge would that
be, Harding?”
“The west front, sir, where the concealed batteries are. The main
front!” Captain Harding exclaimed, overcome with joy. “Oh, sir, we
should be able to silence those guns now!”
His hand, behind the General’s back, came down on Lucy’s
shoulder with a pressure that would have been painful if its friendly
and delightful meaning had not increased her happiness. “Oh, but
you’ve done a good piece of work, Captain Lucy! I always knew you
had it in you,” he whispered.
“Next week—the attack we had planned——” the General was
saying.
Forgetting herself, Lucy interrupted him. “Oh, not next week,
General! Right away! My father will be sent into Germany day after
to-morrow.”
The General swung around in his chair and looked at her with
keen, thoughtful eyes. “I can’t make promises,” he said at last. “But
if any one has deserved to have her father saved it is you. And the
army cannot afford to lose Colonel Gordon if there’s a chance of
reaching him. Tell us what else you know.”
“I can tell you the weakest point in the line before Château-
Plessis. Captain Beattie and I heard two German soldiers talking
about it outside his prison window. But he knew it before anyway. It
was there that I got through.”
“Wheeler, bring that scale map and put it on the desk,” ordered
the General. “Gentlemen, draw up, and Miss Gordon will show us
just exactly where she crossed the lines.”
The British officer, rising to obey this invitation, held out his hand
to Lucy as he neared the desk. His face had in it something more
than a friendly admiration for her brave exploit.
“I want to congratulate you myself, Lucy Gordon,” he said. “I’m
your cousin. I’m Janet’s brother, Arthur Leslie.”
 CHAPTER XVI

THE YANKS ARE COMING

At daybreak of the morning following Lucy’s departure from

Château-Plessis Colonel Gordon awoke to the boom of cannon. He
raised his head, listening intently. In a moment he was aware that
the fighting had recommenced along the whole front. He guessed
that the bombardment extended from Argenton as far south as
Cantigny, though as yet the lines in front of Château-Plessis were
quiet enough. He rose and dressed and went out into the garden.
The sentry glanced at him with a look of surprise and annoyance,
for he was not the only one who had been roused by the guns.
Several of the convalescents were strolling about the garden, though
in the faint light of a foggy dawn Colonel Gordon could distinguish
them but vaguely. Neither could he see the sky beyond the town,
but the fog could not prevent his hearing, and his ears told him
much. The bombardment was steadily increasing. The German
artillery in front of Château-Plessis had gone into action now, and
the vibrations of the powerful explosions began to shake the air.
From the distant boom of the guns before Argenton to the crash of
those but a mile away, the mighty volume of sound rolled ever
increasingly on the listeners’ ears.
As Colonel Gordon stood motionless by the garden wall, the figure
of a French officer advanced out of the fog and came to his side.
“Good-morning, Colonel,” said his fellow prisoner, and in the
Frenchman’s voice Colonel Gordon detected something of the
longing hope that was stirring his own heart. “What do you think of
it? It sounds as if they were in earnest.”
He spoke very low, and Colonel Gordon answered him as softly, “It
is evident that the Allies began the attack. I’m sure the firing
commenced from our own lines. The German batteries in front of the
town have but just come in.”
“The attack appears to be developing on our flanks—Château-
Plessis is not directly menaced yet. I fear it could not be held, even if
taken, while the enemy holds Argenton.” The Frenchman’s eager
voice had grown more anxious than hopeful as the situation grew
clearer to his mind.
“That is probable enough,” Colonel Gordon muttered thoughtfully,
“but, Captain Remy, I think the Americans are opposite us, and they
are not likely to attempt an advance over this unknown terrain
without good hope of success.”
Colonel Gordon was not at heart quite as confident as he
appeared, as the Frenchman easily recognized, but both men knew
the value of a little optimism, and Captain Remy allowed himself to
be somewhat encouraged. In fact, notwithstanding the obstacle of
Argenton’s formidable defenses, the thought of that American army
about to strike with all the ardor of its growing strength and
determination was cause for hope and even for confidence.
An hour passed while the two officers stood there, listening in
silence, and occasionally exchanging a few words. When a German
orderly came to call them back to the hospital they left reluctantly.
The crash of the guns was the only sound they cared to hear just
then, and the only sight their eyes looked for the dark puffs of
bursting shells in the sky beyond the town, from which the fog had
begun to clear away.
Inside the hospital Colonel Gordon caught sight of Elizabeth and
stopped the German woman on her hurried way across the ward.
“Where is Lucy, Elizabeth?” he asked. “She is usually here before this
time.”
 Elizabeth’s face was flushed and troubled, and her hands began
clasping each other nervously. Colonel Gordon thought he guessed
the reason for her uneasiness. Convinced as he was of his old
servant’s loyalty to the Allies’ cause he could not but suppose that
her feelings would undergo some conflict on the eve of another
fight.
Elizabeth stammered a little as she answered, “Miss Lucy not yet
is here, Colonel. She told me I should say to you that she will before
very long see you.”
This vague reply satisfied Colonel Gordon for the moment, and he
went in to breakfast, still deeply thoughtful over the commencing
battle. It was easy to see that every one in the hospital shared his
preoccupation. The Americans and their allies listened to the roaring
cannon with eager, intent faces. Between patients and nurses many
a hopeful word or meaning glance was exchanged, in spite of
German doctors and orderlies near by. These seemed not to share in
the keen interest the others showed. They looked sullen, anxious
and ill-tempered. Many a poor French or American soldier was
roughly handled that morning by a German orderly who saw a
chance to vent his smouldering resentment. By no stretch of
imagination could any German in Château-Plessis see a cheerful
prospect ahead. When the French and British had exacted from
them such a fearful toll during the progress of Germany’s victorious
spring offensive, what would the price be now that America had
joined the ranks of the Allies?
The bombardment had grown heavy and continuous all along the
line. Colonel Gordon presently started back to the garden, but was
prevented by the sentry on the path outside, who shook his head
scowlingly, with upraised rifle. Surprised at this sudden change of
front, Colonel Gordon went back to his room and looked out of the
main window toward the west. The sky was filled with darting
airplanes, and bursting shrapnel formed countless dark spots among
the white clouds beyond the town. As he looked, the scream of a
shell drowned for a moment every other sound. The next instant,
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