"Adventure number one!" muttered Don, with a great sigh of relief.
In the narrow and rugged passageway he dared not put on many bursts of speed, though at times he shot past several vehicles in quick succession. Presently, however, he was forced to pause—there was not sufficient room to pass between the teams. A series of loud yells, a few vigorous, aggressive blasts of the horn, and the transports on either side began hugging the edge of the road. But still it continued to be slow work. "Tres pressé," the doctor had said, and Don Hale felt that upon his shoulders lay a tremendous responsibility.
"At any rate, we're getting nearer, old chap!" he yelled to Chase.
The crouched-up figure made no reply.
During moments in which the storm lessened the terrific din of the French batteries became more apparent. In every direction, both near and far, they seemed to be pouring forth streams of missiles, and the Germans on the hills beyond were returning a furious fire. Shells passed overhead in both directions, and even the roar of storm and cannon could not drown their sinister whistle—their awe-inspiring shriek. Every now and again they burst startlingly near, the resounding blasts echoing over the air, and as Ambulance Number Eight neared the Chemin de Mort the tension on Don Hale's nerves became so acute that sometimes an involuntary tremor shook his frame.
Now, by means of the lightning, he caught sight of the bend in the road. One of the most critical stages in their whole journey had been reached. For the first time Chase Manning aroused himself, and, sitting erect, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Cautiously, Don Hale took the ambulance around the curve. He heard his companion exclaim:
"The Chemin de Mort!"
"Yes!" cried Don,—"the Chemin de Mort!" He wondered how it happened that the convoys had not yet been halted along that shell-swept road.
"Once we get by I'll feel a bit easier in my mind," he muttered, "or, at least, I shall until old Number Eight draws up to the crossroads."