He was straining his eyes at something which she could net see. Finally she made out a moving, lumpish sort of procession coming from the road. As it drew nearer she recognised it as a battery of guns, which stopped behind a clump of woods in a hollow. She heard the commands and saw the groups of horses swing round and then go to the rear.
"I'll speak to them. Perhaps they can tell us what to expect," said Phil.
"Shan't I go with you? My French may help."
"Yes, that's so. Shall I never forget that everybody doesn't speak English and that only the English really understand my French?"
Together they walked across the dewy fields till an officer of the battery flashed his electric pocket lamp in their faces, as he stepped from among his men busy emplacing the soixante-quinze for action.
"Monsieur! What is your business here? Who are you?" he asked.
"I am an American stopping at the chateau over there and this is my cousin," Phil managed to say in his school French.
"His accent is not German, you will agree, mon capitaine!" put in Helen.
"Nor yours, but Parisian, Mademoiselle!" He was very polite, but the voice was tired. "You had better go back to the chateau and stay, lest your purpose be misunderstood. We are very sharp about such things in war time."
"How is it going?" They asked the question together; the question of all France.