"Yes," said Dunstan, slowly—"not only seemed to be, but was."
Very shortly afterward the Red Cross car sped swiftly around a bend in the road and into one of the most dangerous stretches of the entire journey. This was the Chemin de Mort, or Road of Death, so named because of the fact that for a distance of over a kilometer it lay in full view of the German trenches and artillery and within easy range of shell-fire. Eleven ambulances belonging to the section had been almost put out of service along that kilometer of deadly danger by bursting shrapnel shells, and at certain times it required all the courage and nerve a driver possessed to stick to his car. Number eight, one of the eleven damaged cars, still showed the marks made by the leaden hail.
Probably no member of the unit ever arrived at the Chemin de Mort or raced across its sinister length without experiencing decidedly peculiar and uncomfortable sensations—sensations in which dread and awe formed a prominent part.
"Let 'er rip, Don!" cried Dunstan, anxiously.
"First speed it is," said Don.
Number eight bowled swiftly ahead, sometimes jolting and bumping over inequalities in the road, while the two on the front seat kept their eyes fixed on a bend beyond. Only a few moments were required to reach it, and when the car shot around into a safer zone both Don and Dunstan gave a little sigh of relief.
"I always find myself wondering if something tragic isn't going to happen along here one of these days," murmured Dunstan.
"It hasn't yet," said Don.
"I know; but——"
The art student paused and shrugged his shoulders.