Chester crept forward, searching for the ruins of the house to mark the spot. There was a communication-trench some yards away to the left of it, he remembered. He could hear them working upon it now, calling to each other as the shells had given them a few minutes respite. He crept by them and came upon stones—the square stones of the walls of a house demolished and scattered. Only one house had been at that point, and, crawling carefully, he dropped into the pit of the cellar. There, in that cellar, Hal and he were to meet, if Hal yet lived.
Hal was not there; he had not been there. The heap of old charred beams and rubbish, which covered the opening of the tunnel to the French hiding in the old cellar deeper and beyond, was undisturbed; he heard no sound except that of the shells and the scraping and voices of the Germans at work thirty yards away.
Chester flattened down upon the rubbish of the cellar; he raised a black beam a little and thrust himself under. Feeling ahead, he found more rubbish, which he cleared; and then, beyond, his hand found emptiness and the smell of earth—and the odor of people and the closeness of foul air. But there was no sound ahead.
He crawled his length and then spoke quietly in French:
"I come for the redeeming of France," words which he had been ordered to use upon his arrival.
He got no reply from the silence ahead; so he said again:
"I am not Jean Brosseau; he sent me. I come to ask your aid."
"Aid?" a voice repeated; "aid?"
Chester lighted his little torch again, and men's faces showed before him.
"Quick!" one of the men said. "Get away. It's a trap!"