"DESERTER!"
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.
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.