This time, what with her failing strength and the excitement of the venture, Ruth was utterly played out when they reached the log whereon she and the major had rested the night before.
"We'll carry her between us—chair fashion," suggested Tom Cameron. "That is the way, Major. Interlock your hands with mine. Lean back, Ruthie. We'll get you out of this all right."
It was a three-hour trip to the American trenches, however, and, after a while, Ruth insisted upon being set down. She did not want to overburden her two companions.
At the listening post an officer was sent for who recognized Major Marchand and who took Tom and Ruth "on trust." The major, too, sent the word up and down the trenches by telephone that the expected advance of the Germans was about to occur.
As the three passed through the American lines, after removing the rubber suits in the dugout, they passed company after company of American troops marching into the trenches.
Tom left Ruth and the major at a certain place to report to his commander. But he promised to be in Clair the next morning to satisfy Helen of his safety.
It was almost morning before the major and Ruth secured transportation, the one to the Clair Hospital, the other to the chateau on the hill behind the village. But it was an officer's car they used, and it covered the distance less bumpily than had Charlie Bragg's ambulance.
"Mademoiselle," said Major Henri Marchand in his most punctilious way, "it is in my heart to say much to you. I approve of you—I admire you. Your courage is sublime—and your modesty and goodness equally so.
"Forgive the warm expressions of a Frenchman who appreciates your attributes of character, as well as your graces of person. Believe me your friend forever—your devoted and humble friend. And I trust your future will be as bright as you deserve."
The day was just breaking as he thus bade her good-bye and Ruth Fielding alighted from the machine at the gateway of the hospital.