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.”