Would the Chemin de Mort justify its name?
Any speed would have seemed too slow to the youthful driver of the Red Cross ambulance, but the pace at which he was obliged to move tried him to the utmost. He took chances he would scarcely have dared before, and frequently the car was violently jolted and shaken as the hubs of wheels ground against one another in passing.
Don Hale fairly counted the yards; and doubtless every other driver along that section experienced sensations of just such an unpleasant nature as those which affected him.
Possibly it could only be a question of time when some of the projectiles were going to land squarely on the road, as they had often done before. Still, he reflected, a kind fate might protect them. The aviator's son realized, too, that dread and fear meant a lessening of his capacity to act with coolness and judgment, so he strove hard to cast both aside.
Very often the Chemin de Mort and the surrounding hills shot out from the dense obscurity, to become, for the instant, almost as clearly defined as in the broad light of day. They formed a weird—a most impressive spectacle; but each flash brought into view something else that was even more impressive—huge, low-hanging clouds of black smoke which told of the explosions of the marmites.
At length half the distance was covered, and still nothing had happened. Don Hale's spirits took an upward trend.
"So far we're getting along famously, old chap!" he cried to Chase.
"Number Eight has a long way to go yet," responded the young chap from Maine, in a strained voice.
Don sadly missed the companionship of Dunstan—Dunstan, the care-free, the courageous and the hopeful, who by his strength of character helped to impart strength to those around him. And yet he could not blame Chase. His nature was cast in a different mould.
As the ambulance rolled and bumped steadily along, the boy, in spite of all the dangers that surrounded them, could not help but be impressed by the grandeur—the sublimity of the situation. Now the wind was soft and low, now it rose to heights of almost tumultuous fury, and intermingling with its cadences were the sounds of booming guns—of thunder—of pelting rain and exploding shells, all combining to form in his mind a strange, weird symphony—a symphony expressive of terror and tragedy.