"I heard footsteps just outside."
"By all that's wonderful—footsteps in a deserted village!" cried Dunstan.
"Yes—yes." The aviator's son raised his voice. "Hello—hello! Qui est la?"
"Entrez—entrez, Monsieur, or Messieurs!" exclaimed Dunstan.
The Red Cross men did not wait to see whether their invitation would be accepted or not but, rising, made a concerted and rather precipitous rush for the door.
Before they had reached it, however, a tall dark form suddenly loomed up in the opening, and the rays of Don's light fell full on the face of a poilu.
Rather startled at being received in such an unceremonious fashion, the soldier abruptly halted, then, recovering himself, exclaimed in a deep, musical voice:
"Bon soir, Messieurs! From your accent I should judge that I have the honor of addressing Americans."
"Yes," laughed Don. "We belong to the Red Cross."
The man was attired in the uniform of a private, but it forcibly struck the aviator's son that not since he had come to France had he encountered a private of such distinguished mien and bearing. The Frenchman, tall and dark, wore a pointed Van Dyke beard. His features were aquiline; his eyes sharp and piercing. It could be readily seen at a glance that he was not one to be treated in an offhand and jocular fashion.