He made no reply—and sat frowning. The train had stopped again. By contrast with the roar to which their ears had become accustomed, the silence was eloquent as though their train had stopped breathless upon the edge of an abyss. Then small sounds emerged from the silence, a complaining voice from an adjoining compartment, the buzzing of an insect, a distant hissing of steam. Then suddenly, the night was split with a crash of sound and glass from the window was sprinkled over them. Another crash. And before Piquette had realized what was happening Jim had seized her bodily and thrown her to the floor of their compartment, and was crouching over her, while the missiles from outside, fired rapidly, were buried in the woodwork above the place where they had sat.
Six shots and then a commotion of voices here, there, everywhere, and the sound of feet running inside the train and out.
"Lucky I pulled that blind," said Jim as he straightened, glancing at the bullet holes.
"Quinlevin," gasped Piquette as she rose to a sitting posture.
Jim Horton got up and opened the door just as the guards came running with excited inquiries, and seeing Piquette upon the floor.
"Madame has been shot——?"
But Piquette immediately reassured them by getting up, frightened but quite unhurt.
"By the window—the shots came," she explained quickly in French, while Jim exhibited the damaged paneling. "Some one outside has fired at us——"
They understood and were off again, out into the darkness where there was much running about with lanterns and many cries of excitement, while the other passengers crowded into the compartment and examined the bullet holes, mouths agape.
"Is it the Boches?" asked an excited mondaine of her compagnon de voyage.