The battle still raged as the wearied pair pursued their way to the wood. Only once did they pass anybody to hold speech with, for this road ran parallel with the battleline, rather than to it or away from it.
A group of peasants huddled in a corner of a stone wall, over against what might have been their ruined cottage—old men, women and children. The latter cowered in their mothers' skirts and only jerked their tiny limbs and moaned when the great shells burst. They would not speak.
"The continual explosions affect the children's nerves so that the whole countryside suffers from an epidemic of St. Vitus' dance," the nurse said. "Just think of the effect of this awful war upon unborn generations!"
One of the silent men under the shelter of the wall rose when the American passed and shuffled after them. Belinda glanced back at him as they toiled on.
"What do you suppose he wants, Frank?" she whispered.
"We will see when we get to the wood," the aviator said.
In the shadow of the wood the peasant overtook them. "All from the air, Monsieur," he said, and removed the ragged hat he wore, and which had half concealed his features.
"Renaud!" ejaculated the aviator. "I was not sure of you until you spoke."
"And I, Monsieur—I feared you had gone up in smoke with yonder château till I descried you and Mademoiselle plodding along the road."
The safety of the Americans was assured with the appearance of Monsieur Renaud. Yet Belinda could scarcely look at the man, she could not touch his hand. She thought of Erard!