A FOOTSTEP ON THE STAIR
For a few seconds after Don Hale had jumped down from his seat on Number Eight Chase Manning sat motionless. His brain was in a tumult and all power over his muscles seemed to have vanished. There was no escape—there could be no escape, he thought, from such a horrible situation; and when after a few moments had passed and he found himself still alive it came as a matter of great surprise. Then, suddenly, a reaction set in; the benumbing sensations which had robbed him of strength and courage disappeared, and in their stead came a wild, a feverish desire to run—to run in any direction so long as it led away from the vicinity of that terrible road.
He heard Don Hale call, and by a flash of lightning discovered him hastening away. To his mind his fellow ambulancier was seeking safety in flight, and to act in any other way he thought would have been sheer madness—almost like offering oneself up as a sacrifice to the God of War.
He sprang to the ground, and, in a state of the utmost panic and excitement, lunged heavily through the mud, seeking for a passageway between the vehicles.
Those were terrible moments to Chase Manning. He felt cold shivers coursing through him; his heart was throbbing painfully.
Shells began bursting with fearful force close about him and his overstrained nerves threatened to give way completely.
Men were dashing past, running with all that mad haste which characterizes the actions of those fleeing for their lives.
"It's all up! It's all up!"
The words fell stutteringly from Chase Manning's lips.
The flashing fire of the exploding projectiles, the thunderous concussions and the fumes which were wafted in his face appalled him. He began to experience a feeling of rage—of bitter rage against those who were responsible for the engines of destruction on the opposite hills.
He soon found a narrow passageway between the transports and then, with lowered head, began running across a muddy, uneven field—a field that one moment was swallowed up in pitchy blackness and the next illuminated with a dazzling glare of lightning. In his panic and confusion of mind, he entirely forgot the shelters that might have been found along the road.
As he plunged and staggered ahead his feet often sank deeply into the soft, yielding soil, which held on to them with a sucking, tenacious grip that was hard to break. Although dazed—almost unable to think coherently—he never ceased to put forth his utmost exertions. The bursting projectiles were dropping to the right and left of him, ahead and behind, each with a gleam of flame, a stunning detonation and an enormous rounded pile of smoke, and now and then shrapnel shells exploding in the air sprayed the earth with bullets.
Despite the pains and aches which the strenuous exertion brought into his frame, Chase kept struggling on, in the midst of Heaven's storm and the far deadlier storm created by man. Many a time he had narrow escapes from falling headlong into the shell-craters that pitted the field; many a time he crawled around a rim to safety.
At length, after having been on the move for about five minutes, he began climbing the slope of a low ridge, and on arriving at the top, his forces being practically exhausted, he was obliged to come to an unwilling halt.
He had withdrawn, as it were, to the edge of the zone of falling marmites; and with this knowledge the turbulence of his emotions slowly subsided and he was better able to grasp the sense of things.
"Poor Don Hale!" he panted. "I'll bet he's 'gone West'![11] How terrible!"
Making no effort to protect himself from either the wind or rain, the young chap from Maine turned, and, with eyes that twitched with excitement, gazed in the direction from whence he had come. A portion of the road lay in full view, and as each flash gleamed in the sky, he could see the motionless transports vaguely defined against the background. Column after column of ugly-looking smoke was being swept along with the wind, sometimes clearly in front of the camions, sometimes clearly on the other side. Vaguely, he thought that the Chemin de Mort never could have received a worse baptism of fire.
What was he to do? Where should he go?
Able to reason clearly for the first time since the explosion, these questions presented themselves to his mind. And to neither could he find a satisfactory answer. Of one thing he was quite certain—it would have been beyond reason for him to return to the road.
And yet, in spite of his gratitude to Providence for having spared him, he felt a curious and ill-defined feeling of dissatisfaction with himself. Had he been guilty of deserting his post?
He could answer the question firmly with a "No!"
Had he acted with any degree of bravery?
He could also answer that question with a "No!"
Wet and miserable, Chase Manning passed through some very distressing moments.
And then something occurred which once more caused him to start with alarm. It was the familiar whistle of an "arrivé," a sound which never failed to send a series of tremors through him. He had time to wonder where it was going to land and whether he should throw himself flat on the ground when the explosion occurred. And it was so close at hand that for a few terrible moments Chase felt that he must certainly be struck by some of the flying fragments.
"By George, that was another narrow shave!" he exclaimed, in a hollow voice. "If I don't get away from here in a hurry one of those confounded things will get me yet."
For a second time Chase Manning began a flight, not so precipitous as the first, though none the less determined.
But for the lightning he would scarcely have been able to make any progress at all; for he was now in the midst of a patch of timber. The tall straight trees, mostly denuded of their branches and boughs, seemed more suggestive of a collection of gaunt telegraph poles than of monarchs of the forest. He did not succeed in getting through this woods, however, without receiving many painful jabs and bumps from various objects which impeded his progress.
A little farther along Chase stumbled upon a road at the crest of a hill, and after his weary march over the water-soaked, torn-up earth to be actually on a highway once more came as a most welcome relief.
"Well, only a little while ago I certainly never would have expected that I'd be standing here safe and sound!" he panted. "Now, what am I going to do? The bombardment along the road seems to be about over."
With the change in the situation the tension seemed to be lifted in a measure from the young Red Cross driver's mind. He had gone through the most frightful peril without anything more serious happening to him than a few minor bruises and scratches. And now that it was all over it scarcely seemed as if it ever could have happened. And what was the sequel to be?
To this self-propounded query the answer came at once:
"Return to the road and Ambulance Number Eight, or, at least, to the place where you left it."
But where was the ambulance? He had paid no attention to direction in his flight and hadn't the least idea now where the road lay. Thoroughly perplexed, Chase leaned against a tree trunk.
The storm had lessened, but of all the dreary and dismal situations it was possible to imagine this seemed about the worst. Here he was—alone, in utter blackness, with a few pattering drops of rain occasionally falling and little gusts of wind toying with the vegetation and making a weird symphony of sounds.
"The people who started this confounded war haven't my best regards," he growled. "It's——Oh—oh—hello! Who would have believed it!"
A flash of lightning had enabled him to make an interesting and surprising discovery. It was the tower of the Château de Morancourt, faintly visible in the distance.
"Great Julius Cæsar!" exclaimed Chase. "I said no more night visits to lonely châteaus for me, but, by Jove, I'm privileged to change my mind. After what I've gone through another visit would seem like a joyful picnic. Yes sir—why not? The château at present seems to be perfectly safe from German guns. So I'll just wait in the ancient stronghold of the De Morancourts for daylight to come."
Having decided upon something definite, Chase immediately felt very much better. He easily managed to persuade himself that it was the wisest course to pursue, though at times unpleasant doubts persisted in coming into his mind.
"Confound it! Nobody could be expected to take a chance of throwing his life away," he growled almost savagely. "Anyway—here goes!"
Traveling along the road, the young chap made rapid progress, even though the gloom was so intense that he often found himself plunging off into muddy fields at the side. Thoroughly drenched, he waded regardlessly through the pools and puddles, his sole thought being to reach the château, and, in quiet and safety, give his nerves and body the rest they required.
Arriving at the base of the hill, he found the entrance to the park of the Château de Morancourt right before him. How it brought back recollections of his previous visit! He thought of Don Hale, the youngest ambulance driver in the service, and his anxiety and forebodings concerning him increased, especially now that his thoughts were not upon his own immediate safety.
"Poor chap—poor chap!" he murmured many times. "How great a suspense I must endure! Ah!—war—war! What a terrible thing it is! Oh, but hang it all, I mustn't think too much!"
Chase, groping his way past the gate-posts, entered the grounds. Everywhere the surroundings were black and forbidding, for only an occasional gleam of lightning from the now rapidly-departing storm faintly illuminated the sky.
"Anyway, I'm in no danger of losing my way," he thought, a little grimly. "Be as black as you please, old nature; I am in a position to defy your efforts!"
Walking steadily along between trees which he could scarcely see and by the side of lawns equally invisible, he soon found himself in front of the ancient château. The lightning flashed, and the ruined tower, austere and threatening-looking, stood for an instant a black silhouette against the glare, and then melted away into obscurity.
On a former occasion the loneliness and mystery of the night had strangely impressed Chase Manning; now such things appeared trivial—not worthy of a moment's thought. He was no longer affected by idle fancies or tricks of the imagination—actualities alone concerned him. Even the thought of the mysterious sound and the equally mysterious flashing light were totally disregarded as, slowly and cautiously, he passed under the great porte-cochère and circled entirely around the structure, not stopping until he came to the broken window.
What he would not have dreamed of doing before had he been alone he now proceeded to do without a tremor, and that was to grasp the window-sill, pull himself up and enter the building.
"Whew! I thought that nothing could be blacker than it is outside," he reflected, "but I was mistaken. It's a mighty good thing I brought this along."
In another instant a pocket flash-light was sending a dancing beam of light across the floor.
"That chair which disturbed our equanimity the other night ought to serve as a mighty nice and comfortable resting-place to a weary, mud-bespattered fugitive from the horrors of war," muttered Chase. "Ah, but this has been a night to be remembered!"
Quickly crossing the great apartment, he entered the next, and, well remembering the position of the chair, directed his light upon the spot. But instead of its rays streaming over the piece of furniture, as he had fully expected, they simply made a patch on the floor and wall.
And at the discovery of the fact that it had actually been moved again Chase Manning gave a start.
"By George, that's queer!" he jerked out. "Is this really a deserted château, or isn't it? Am I alone, or are there others around?"
He paused irresolutely, fighting an impulse to turn upon his heel and make a precipitous exit from the place over which so much mystery seemed to hover.
"No, sir! I came here to stay until daylight—and stay I will!" he muttered determinedly. "Hello!"
The flash-light which he was idly directing about had suddenly lifted the form of the chair out of the darkness. It stood in an inconspicuous position, partly concealed by a handsome screen.
"Now, I'd give quite a lot to know just how it got there," he mused. "Did the same person who moved it before repeat the operation, or was it some one else? Ah, that's a question which would certainly interest Don Hale!"
Then, as his thoughts reverted to his fellow ambulancier, Chase felt such a troubled feeling coming over him that for a moment he quite cast aside his reflections concerning the peculiar travels of the innocent-looking chair. Don, he feared, was hasty and impulsive, with the rash bravery which sometimes belongs to youth. What a terrible thing it would be if anything should have happened to him!
Chase was thoroughly weary. His endurance had been tried to a greater extent than ever before in his life, and with every movement pains shot through him. Without wasting any time in cogitation or surmises, he walked over to the chair, pulled it away from the screen, and then, giving expression to a feeling of contentment, sat down.
"This has certainly been a night of contrast," he sighed. "From being in the midst of storm and battle to a luxurious seat in a fine old château is a wonderful change."
Stretching his legs out before him, Chase closed his eyes and prepared to get as much comfort as possible, though, of course, in his wet uniform and with shoes heavily caked with mud, there was not much to be had. It seemed very solemn. From outside came the rumble of the big guns; but the soft soughing of the tree tops in the breeze, a soothing, lulling sound, aided the boy in his effort to compose himself.
Soon Chase was only vaguely conscious of his surroundings. He seemed to be again going through the terrifying ordeal of the night, in the midst of a most extraordinary confusion, neither real, nor yet unreal. At length, however, as though his brain had become too weary to longer allow these thoughts to hold such a mastery over him, he fell into a peaceful doze and from that drifted into a state of profound slumber.
Though in reality considerable time had passed, it seemed but a moment later that his eyes suddenly opened.
Chase realized that something had startled him, but what he could not tell. A peculiar tingling sensation ran through him. He looked hastily about. What did he see?
Nothing, save that the windows instead of being indistinguishable from the rest of the room showed as faintly-gray patches of light—the dawn was breaking.
Mentally deciding that imagination had played with him, Chase was about to rise from his seat when he heard the sound of a footfall caused by some one descending the grand stairway.
Quite electrified, he stifled a gasp. It was a most unpleasant experience, conjuring up in his mind all sorts of strange, wild fancies. Should he make his presence known?
For the life of him he could not repress a series of cold shivers; his nerves were on the keenest edge. And as he sat there motionless the tread of feet sounded louder; yes, some one was approaching.
Now Chase stood up. And then, as his eyes were turned toward the doorway leading to the dining-room, a flashing light suddenly shot across the threshold—and behind it he perceived the dark, shadowy form of a man.