DON HALE
OVER THERE

By W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

Author of

"DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONE"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB SERIES," ETC.

Illustrated by H. A. BODINE

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
1918

COPYRIGHT
1918 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

"Don Hale in the War Zone" recounts the many adventures of Don on a dangerous trip across the ocean, as well as in war-torn France, while seeking his father, an aviator in the service of the Allies. His chum, George Glenn, too, was an active participant in numerous exciting events.

The present volume, the second of the series, tells about the thrilling experiences that fell to the lot of Don, who, in common with numbers of other young Americans, volunteered his services as an ambulance driver in that great organization, the Red Cross, which has done so much for the cause of humanity during the world war.

Don views the operations at close range, and, naturally, amid such perilous surroundings, often finds himself in extremely serious situations.

His life in the war zone, however, is not all danger, and besides his work with the Red Cross he and some of his friends have an interesting experience in connection with a mystery which hovers over the ancient Château de Morancourt.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

Contents

Illustrations

Don Hale Over There

[CHAPTER I]

THE NEW ARRIVAL

"Yes, sir, it's been rather quiet along this sector for a week or two past, Chase, but believe an old veteran in the ambulance service when he says that it isn't going to remain so very long. An attack by one side or the other is bound to happen; and then—whizz!—bang! You'll hear more shells popping than you ever could have dreamed existed in the world. This is no children's party—eh, fellows?"

A volley of assents came from nine hearty voices.

The "old veteran," who had spoken with a great deal of earnestness, fixed his gaze quite searchingly, even sternly, upon Chase, a big, husky chap sitting close by, who had made no answer.

"Say, mon ami, what made you join the Red Cross, anyway?" he asked.

Chase, disregarding his question, rose to his feet, stretched himself and yawned. He wore the air of one who is entirely out of harmony with his surroundings. Whereas all the rest, in spite of the hazardous nature of their calling, appeared to be full of life and spirits, he looked sullen and discontented.

"I declare, these nights are about the limit!" he exclaimed, in a growling tone—"nothing to do but loaf around and——"

"One kicker in a crowd is one too many," remarked the "old veteran," or, rather, Dunstan Farrington, with a laugh which softened the bluntness of his observation.

"Too bad he didn't remain in the states," added Hugh Wendell.

The observations of the two had only the effect of causing Chase to shrug his shoulders and lapse into a silence which no one seemed inclined to disturb.

On the table in the middle of a large, bare room occupied by the boys stood an oil lamp which cast a yellowish glimmer over the surroundings and threw upon the walls and floor huge, grotesquely-shaped shadows. In the far corners the feeble light could not cope successfully with the darkness, and there somber gloom and mystery lurked.

To a casual observer the gathering might have appeared to be a social affair—a mere coming together of young chaps who had no very serious object in view; in reality, however, it was something far different—they belonged to a unit of Red Cross ambulance drivers, stationed for the time being in an abandoned hotel at a little shell-torn village not far from the now famous city of Verdun. The eleven were within a zone of death and destruction—a zone where peril was never absent for a single hour.

From the roadway outside came a ceaseless rumble. Motor lorries, huge supply trucks, ammunition wagons, in fact practically every kind of vehicle belonging to the transportation service of an army in the field was making its way under cover of darkness toward the front. And in the opposite direction a continuous line of "empties" flowed steadily past.

The constant growling and grumbling of the French batteries, from their masked positions in the hills to the east and northeast, were growing louder. The German artillery, too, located to the north and northwest, kept booming away.

After a while Dunstan Farrington brought out a sketch book, and with swift, sure strokes began to record some impressions he had received during the day. Dunstan was not a collegian, but a former student of the Ecole des Beaux Arts at Paris. During the early part of the great war, like numerous other young men, he had felt the call to action and had volunteered under the Red Cross.

More than once while under fire the boyish-looking young chap had performed some valiant deed in conveying the wounded soldiers from the battle-field, and had incidentally narrowly escaped death or serious injury. Dunstan, with several other equally brave Americans, also ambulance drivers, had received the Croix de Guerre, or War Cross, which the Médicin Divisionnaire had himself pinned to their breasts.

During the last few years the art student had roughed it as few young men of his culture and education are called upon to do. But no amount of hard knocks could have taken away from Dunstan a certain air of refinement and a suavity of speech and manner which stamped him as an aristocrat. It was not, however, that form of aristocracy which sometimes instinctively arouses a feeling of antagonism or dislike.

The ambulance unit was installed in the abandoned Hotel de la Palette, a one-time favorite rendezvous for artists, situated several kilometers behind the lines.

During various bombardments of the village so much damage had been caused that it was now scarcely more than a mass of débris—an inhospitable waste, with but few of its inhabitants remaining, and the hotel had also suffered considerably. The ambulanciers, however, set to work, and by a judicious use of materials succeeded in making it fairly water-tight and comfortable. Formerly they had slept on straw spread around the sides of a big barn; now real beds and real rooms were reminders of the comforts which each had left behind him.

The appearance of the Hotel de la Palette was quite suggestive of some old print, such as might be found hanging in the window of a second-hand book shop. It seemed to be something wholly apart from this modern era; an air of a century past hovered over its discolored walls and the dingy cobbled courtyard which they enclosed. Very tranquil and peaceful indeed it looked—just the sort of a place where one might expect to see a farmer's cart or a hay wagon drawn up before the door and peasants occasionally wandering in and out.

A wide, arching porte-cochère, battered and grimy, led into the courtyard, where some of the Red Cross cars were parked. And so the neighing of horses and the stamping of their iron-shod hoofs, as well as the shouts of hostlers, had long since ceased to be, and now the enclosure resounded and echoed to the blasts of the motorist's horn or to the fresh, clear voices of youthful Americans.

The cars which the courtyard could not accommodate stood in inconspicuous positions in side lanes or behind the houses. The section was composed of thirty men and twenty-two ambulances. Lieutenant Fourneaux, a French officer, had entire charge, but the actual commanders were two college men from the United States—Hugh Wendell, Chef, and Gideon Watts, Sous Chef. French army cooks supplied the meals, and the section also included several French mechanics, though of course all the drivers were fully competent to overhaul and repair their cars.

From four to ten men and a number of ambulances were always on duty near the dressing stations, a few thousand yards from the front-line trenches—a dangerous post indeed, where the men were very often obliged to make a precipitous rush for their dugouts in order to escape the rain of devastating shells.

Yes, there was plenty of action, plenty of thrill and excitement in the life.

Chase, who had arrived but a short time before, during a lull in the fighting on that part of the western front, had as yet seen no dangerous service. The young chap was not very popular—persons of a sullen or taciturn disposition seldom are—and though he must have realized this he made no effort to turn the tide in his favor.

Bodkins, the musical member of the unit, had just brought forth his banjo, ready to indulge in his favorite pastime, when a noise at the door stopped him.

"Hello! Somebody's coming in," he exclaimed, looking up.

At that moment the door opened, and a dim, very vague form was seen standing at the threshold about to enter.

"Hello, fellows! Bon soir, Messieurs!" cried a cheery, youthful voice.

Whereupon every one in the room except Chase gave utterance to a hearty shout of welcome, Dunstan Farrington's voice rising high above the others.

"Hello yourself, Don Hale!" he shouted. "Back from your ten days' furlough, eh? You're a sight for sore eyes! Well, well, we're mighty glad to see you!"

[CHAPTER II]

A MYSTERY

"Say, what kind of a time did you have in Paris, boy?" exclaimed Gideon Watts. "Give us the latest news from civilization. What's in that bundle? Newspapers, by Jove! Hooray!"

It seemed as if every one in the room were intent upon shaking the newcomer's hand at the same identical moment.

"Had a perfectly dandy trip," returned the smiling Don Hale. "Maybe I didn't enjoy every minute of it, too. What do you think?—I actually saw an air raid on Paris. But the anti-aircraft guns soon sent the Kaiser's bomb-droppers flying to the cover of the nearest clouds. Hello!—a new member?"

"Ah, Monsieur, nous avons oublié quelquechose. Pardon our lack of politeness," laughed Bodkins—"also, I might say, my use of French. Honestly, fellows, it's like second nature to me now to let it roll off the tip of my tongue, and——"

"I've seen some Frenchmen almost roll over with mirth when they heard it," broke in Watts, cruelly.

"Jealousy!—there's another mean fling thee has to thy credit," sighed Bodkins. "Really, somebody ought to take a correspondence school course in manners. But here's what I intended to say: Mr. Chase Manning and Mr. Don Hale—let me introduce you to each other."

The newest member of the section and the youngest driver thereupon shook hands.

Then, after each had spoken the pleasant words appropriate to such an occasion, Chase drawled, slowly:

"'Pon my word, Mr. Hale, I never expected to see a youngster like you holding down such a responsible position! Why in the world did you come to France?"

Don gave a merry, infectious laugh, though he flushed a trifle at the reference to his boyish appearance; for he, in common with many lads of his age, liked to be considered as approaching man's estate.

"I'll tell you, Mr. Manning," he said.

"Call me Chase, if you please."

"Very well, sir, I will."

Don drew up a stool, stayed a hurricane of questions which the ambulanciers shot toward him from every quarter of the room with a cheery, "All right, fellows—just a minute," and, desirous of satisfying the curiosity of the taciturn young man, began his explanations.

In terse sentences he related how he and his chum, George Glenn, had left Chicago with the intention of joining Mr. Hale, who belonged to the aviation corps, in Paris. On reaching New York, however, they found that a letter and remittance which the two expected had not arrived. Don took passage on a munition ship and had a thrilling adventure at sea. Afterward he met George Glenn and they journeyed to the war zone together. A series of surprising incidents followed, and did not end until they encountered Mr. Hale in a little French village.

"By George! 'Pon my word!—quite a story," commented Chase at its conclusion. His face actually lighted up with a smile. "And then, not satisfied with all that excitement, you had to join the Red Cross in order to get a bit more, eh?"

"No; it wasn't for the sake of the thrills, though they come pretty often in the day's work," laughed Don.

"What's become of your friend?"

"George? Why, he's preparing to enter the aviation service."

"Then he's sure to rise above you very quickly," drawled Chase.

"Ha, ha!" giggled Bodkins. "Did you hear that, boys? Chase Manning's first joke. Remember the day and date."

Don joined in the general laugh which followed, then remarked:

"And now, Chase——"

"Nothing doing, son. My history wouldn't interest even a cat," broke in Chase, quickly. His voice and manner underwent a sudden change; once again he appeared the same surly, discontented chap as before. "You may have this much information, however: I'm from that 'somewhere in America' known as Maine."

By this time many of the ambulanciers were eagerly examining the Paris newspapers—the first they had seen for some time—while others fairly peppered the aviator's son with questions concerning his trip. A journey to the French capital, after the hard grind of work and the dangers to which they were daily exposed, really marked an epoch in the lives of the drivers, and the next best thing to enjoying the pleasure themselves, according to the majority, was to listen to an account of the experiences of some one who had.

And, very naturally, Don Hale, bubbling over with buoyant spirits, had much to say.

While engaged in conversation they heard the sound of an explosion, startlingly loud, rising above the clatter of passing traffic and dull booming of artillery.

"Hello! There's a shell that landed almost near enough to say, 'How do you do?'" cried the chef.

Chase hastily sprang from his seat, with his mouth half open.

"Great Scott!" he blurted out, with a perceptible tremor in his voice. "I never heard one of these confounded things burst so close to the old shack before."

"I know of a certain village which the Boches didn't present with a single shell for months and months," put in Dunstan, dryly, "and just when everybody began to consider it a lovely and peaceful place—a haven of refuge in time of danger—the German batteries, early one morning, suddenly started working overtime. No, Messieurs, it probably will never be rebuilt."

"That's liable to happen here, too," remarked Bodkins, not very reassuringly. "We're only a few kilometers from the front. But what do we care, boys! Isn't there a dandy underground shelter right back of the quarters for us to drop into when things get a bit too squally! Why, it's got a roof of sand-bags and dirt about eight feet thick. Only a shell landing very close could do any harm; so let's cheer up."

A momentary silence ensued, and Dunstan Farrington thereupon began tapping in a very nonchalant fashion upon the table.

Any keen observer might have noticed that of all those present but one paid attention to his action. A curious, eager light instantly sprang into Don Hale's eyes; a smile curved his lips. For Dunstan, using the Morse code, was sending a message to Don, who, being a former wireless operator, of course understood.

Rather laboriously the art student spelled the words which form this sentence:

"Chase, our new member, is an odd sort of a chap. Some of the fellows think he has a yellow streak. We're curious to see what he'll do when under fire."

Humming softly, and with a twinkle in his eye, Don sauntered over to the table, and, in a considerably more expert manner than his fellow driver, made a series of taps upon its surface.

Dunstan had no difficulty in translating the following:

"Don't judge too soon. Give him a chance. I'll bet he'll make good."

Dunstan replied:

"A grouch of the first class, Don."

Again: "Don't judge too soon."

"What's the matter—do you chaps think you're woodpeckers?" broke in Bodkins. "Come, boys, let's entertain ourselves. How's this for improvising?"

And the musician, twanging his banjo, began to sing and play in a decidedly lusty manner.

"Pardon—I thought you wanted us to entertain ourselves," snickered "Peewee" Burns, a very fat, round-faced driver. "Fellows, Bodkins' improvisations have about the same effect on me as Boche shells falling uncomfortably close. I can't beat it too fast."

"Humph!—there's another arrow from jealousy's quiver that slipped harmlessly past," grunted Bodkins. "Why, you poor, ignorant chump, you couldn't tell the difference between music and the blare of a Klaxon."

Then, quite satisfied with this crushing retort, Bodkins began once more. Loudly, and with a most extraordinary accent, he sang some of the latest songs of the poilus,[1] and the others helped him manfully in the chorus.

Thus, for fully fifteen minutes there was so much jollification and noise in the room that the sounds from without were effectually denied an entrance.

At length John Weymouth raised his hand.

"Hold on, boys," he cried. "Enough of this kind of music is too much. What's the next number on the program?"

"Let's all take turns jumping on Bodkins' banjo," suggested "Peewee," pleasantly. "I've got a pair of extra-heavy boots."

"There's enough danger about without inviting any more," laughed Wendell. "Somebody tell a story. Now's your chance, Chase."

The latter shook his head.

"Sorry I can't oblige," he said. "But my gift of gab is less than is usually given to mortals."

"Dunstan, then?"

"He's sure to ring in something about painting or artists," declared "Peewee." "It's a most oddly odd thing what a grip art and music get on some people."

"Commonplace individuals of course can't be expected to understand it," remarked the musician, loftily. "Your bleatings, 'Peewee,' are——"

"Order, order!" interrupted the Sous Chef. "Dunstan has the platform."

"What shall it be—fact or fiction?" asked the art student.

"Give us a little true fiction," remarked Wendell, with a laugh.

Dunstan took a quick turn or two across the room, looked up at the ceiling, then down at the bare planks beneath his feet. Finally he raised his head so as to survey the crowd.

"By George, fellows, that effect of light and shade on your faces and figures is simply corking!" he cried, with enthusiasm. "Rembrandt himself——"

"I told you!" snickered "Peewee."

"The story first and Rembrandt afterward," commented Watts.

"All right, boys." Dunstan, with a sigh of resignation, seated himself on the edge of the table and began swinging his legs to and fro. "I'll relate a little bit of truth that may sound like fiction. Hello!"

Bang! Bang!

Two other concussions, though not quite so loud as the one previously heard, crashed in upon his sentence.

Chase squirmed uneasily in his seat. It required no skilled observer to detect the fact that his nerves were shaking.

"Confound it!" he muttered.

"Oh, that's nothing," Weymouth assured him. "When they hit the house next door it'll be time enough to worry."

"As I wasn't saying," resumed Dunstan, after a moment or two had passed, "my story concerns a French château—one of those typical old châteaus dating from the feudal ages, and within the massive walls of which——"

"He's getting off to a good, flowery start, all right," chirruped "Peewee."

"The nobles and landed gentry dwelt." Then, with a cheery laugh, Dunstan continued, in a more matter-of-fact way: "Just the other day a couple of poilus gave me the tale I'm now passing along to you. In this ancient château, which the Germans shelled and partly wrecked, there lived a direct descendent of one of those old-time seigneurs. The soldiers declared he resided in the great château alone, with a retinue of servants, and that he had the reputation of being an eccentric old chap with one great hobby."

"And what was that?" queried Wendell.

"The collection of paintings and objects of art."

"There it comes, boys!—the art stuff again!" exclaimed "Peewee," yawning. "Say, this is a fairy tale, eh, Dunstan?"

His words were couched in a tone of accusation.

"No, mon ami, not a bit of it," declared the art student, earnestly. "A long article concerning the Morancourt case appeared in a Paris newspaper."

"Morancourt? Why, that's the old place right near us here—up toward the front!"

"That's the very place, my son."

"Hah! The plot thickens. What is the 'case' you spoke of?"

"The Count de Morancourt had in his gallery some of the most valuable of all old masters—a Correggio, a Titian and a Botticelli, besides several examples of the Dutch school, such as Rembrandt and Franz Hals, for instance."

"Well, suppose he had—what of it?" demanded "Peewee," a trifle impatiently. "He isn't the first old gent that's been a bug on collecting pictures. Where does your story begin to become a story?"

"The French government made many efforts to acquire some of Count de Morancourt's treasures for the Louvre," answered Dunstan, "but he always refused to dispose of them."

"No story yet," growled "Peewee."

"Wait."

"That's what we're doing."

"Not long after the beginning of the war the count left the Château de Morancourt and also the land of his birth and set sail for America. Now comes the curious part of the story. With the government and the most famous art dealers of Europe on the qui vive to get hold of his old masters it would have been practically impossible for the count to sell them without the fact becoming immediately known."

"Quite true," assented Wendell.

"It has been proven, too, beyond all doubt, that no part of his collection accompanied the grand seigneur to America."

"What is all this leading to?" inquired Watts.

"Only this: that all the valuable paintings and bric-à-brac, without exception, have disappeared—vanished—gone!"

"Vanished!" echoed Don, his face lighting with interest. "A jolly nice mystery, I call it. There's where the story becomes a story, eh, 'Peewee'?"

"It sounds like one of those 'to-be-continued' yarns," grumbled "Peewee." He winked impressively at Bodkins. "Anyhow, what's the use of ado and chatter about a few old paintings? I'm on call to-night, boys—which means that I must be ready to take out my car at an instant's notice. Guess I'll hit the pillow."

He stretched himself and yawned.

"Why don't they get the old count to explain the matter?" inquired Weymouth.

"I understand he can't be found," answered Dunstan.

"Perhaps the stuff is all in Berlin."

"The Château de Morancourt was never in the hands of the Germans."

"It might have been stolen by some of that great retinue of servants you spoke about," suggested "Peewee."

"Not at all likely. They were sent away some time before the count himself left."

"Well, if official investigators can't solve the mystery I'm sure it's no use for us to puzzle our heads about it," put in Watts. "I always like a story which has some sort of an end, Dunstan. Your affair of the Château de Morancourt wouldn't be so bad but for that."

"I say, let's visit the place the very first chance we get," cried Don. "Those old castles always interested me immensely, and in this case that mystery'll add to the charm."

"Sure we will, Don."

"I reckon I'll go along, too," declared the taciturn Chase, somewhat to the surprise of the others—"that is, if we don't happen to get blown into bits beforehand."

"We'll be glad to have you," said Dunstan, cordially. The art student smiled. "Of course I don't mean blown into bits." He looked around. "Any one else?"

No enthusiastic response came to his ears, whereupon he broke into a hearty peal of laughter.

"I see my story has fallen rather flat," he chuckled. "But never mind, boys. Perhaps our visit to the Château de Morancourt may be the means of our being supplied with an interesting chapter or two on the history of that ancient structure."

"At least it will be a pleasant change," grunted Chase.

"I know how it'll all end, Dunstan," giggled "Peewee." "You'll bring back a pencil drawing, all shaded by hand and labeled with the title and the date of the date."

"All shaded by hand!—the date of the date!" scoffed Bodkins. "Take my advice, 'Peewee'—never speak unless you're spoken to; then the extent of your dreadful ignorance won't be so noticeable."

Dunstan joined in the merry laughter at the expense of the grinning "Peewee" which followed, then, seizing Don by the arm, he exclaimed:

"Come, boy, you look quite serious—upon what, may I ask, are your thoughts fixed so intently?"

"Upon the Château de Morancourt," laughed Don. "That's quite a story, Dunstan."

[CHAPTER III]

ON DUTY

Early on the following morning, while the light of the coming day was slowly spreading throughout the heavens and by degrees bringing into view the landscape which for long hours the deep shades of night had gathered to themselves, Don Hale and Dunstan Farrington clambered into ambulance number eight and took their places on the driver's seat.

"Another forty-eight hours of duty at the outpost ahead of us!" exclaimed Don.

"Yes; and I hope there won't be too much excitement!" said Dunstan. "I reckon Chase Manning would agree to that sentiment."

"There's a chap whose acquaintance I am certainly going to cultivate," laughed the aviator's son.

The boy waved his hand to a couple of mechanicians tinkering over an ambulance near by, threw in the clutch, and number eight, the center of a very strong smell of gasoline, slowly trundled over the cobbled paving, passed beneath the arching gateway and entered the street.

Even at that early hour soldiers billeted in the village were to be seen on every hand, and as the Red Cross car swung along in an easterly direction over the wide highway an occasional "Vive l'Amerique!" rose clearly above the hum of smoothly-working pistons and rumble of wheels.

Traveling at a rapid rate of speed, the ambulance soon reached a bend, and just beyond the road passed under the arch of an ancient porte, or gateway, which marked the limits of the town. Very picturesque and typical of other centuries it looked, looming up against the slowly-lightening sky.

Beyond the porte the ambulance passed a succession of hills and meadows. Everywhere the earth had been pitted, scarred and plowed up by high-explosive shells, and at frequent intervals there were huge yawning craters, meters in depth and width, some showing the earth freshly disturbed, others where it was hard and dry.

The guns still boomed away, and spurting columns of smoke rising here and there told where the shells from the German batteries were falling.

"I hope the Boche won't be tossing any of their property along the Chemin de Mort as we pass," exclaimed Dunstan.

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit if they did," declared Don.

Dunstan glanced at his young companion curiously.

"By George, Don, your nerves are like your helmet—made of steel," he said, admiringly. "Don't you ever get the quiver, the shiver and the shakes like the rest of us?"

"You bet I do," laughed Don. "Hello!—Hear that!—seemed to be right in the direction for which we're bound."

"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.

"Hello! Here comes one of our cars!" cried Don.

His sharp eyes had just caught sight of a small object enveloped in a cloud of dust swinging into view in the distance.

On and on it raced at terrific speed; larger and larger became the vehicle and its accompanying cloud of flying particles. A shaft of the early morning sunlight, shooting across the landscape, tinted it with a rosy glow; sharp lights gleamed and flashed on the polished surfaces. Then, with a rush—a clatter—a whirl of wheels—it bore down a gentle incline immediately in front of them. Now the red cross, the emblem of mercy, on the ambulance's side could be clearly discerned, and Don and Dunstan had a confused and momentary impression of a grim-faced driver, tense and alert, bending over the steering wheel and a companion by his side. Then the road ahead was clear.

"An urgent case!" murmured Don.

"I thought some of those shells were landing near the post," said Dunstan.

Number eight now turned another bend and began ascending a hill, with woods on either side of the road. The highway at this point became rather narrow and winding, and was in the midst of a neighborhood almost as much dreaded as the Chemin de Mort. At night, with the road shrouded in deep black shadows and barely room for vehicles to pass and the likelihood that careless driving might at almost any moment cause a car to topple into a shell-hole, the combination was one calculated to test the skill of the most expert drivers.

The forest was filled with guns of many calibers. And before the war it must have been a very beautiful forest; for pines, cedars, hemlocks, oaks and horse chestnuts, ages old, were growing in great profusion. But the German batteries on the opposite hills had sent veritable hurricanes of screaming shells into its midst. The withering blasts had stripped countless trees of their foliage—so shattered and blasted others that forlorn, ugly-looking stumps alone remained.

Yet the French batteries had withstood the bombardment, and many a time the ambulanciers driving along that narrow road in the forest had been almost deafened by the terrific concussions of the guns.

And as cannon must have ammunition numerous supply posts were situated near the winding road. Cleverly hidden from the eyes of German airmen stretched row after row of shells suitable for every gun, and enormous quantities of boxes containing cartridges and hand-grenades.

As the Red Cross car climbed the hills and descended into the valleys, with the sun's rays ever strengthening and sending slender shafts of pearly light between the trees and spotting their boughs and branches, the two Americans caught occasional glimpses of figures in the depth of the forest—artillerymen, ready for the day's work.

Shells were bursting not far away; detonations came one after another. But the French batteries now remained silent.

"Hit it up again, Don," advised Dunstan, as the car approached a high hill. "If there is any one spot the Boche seem to have the exact range of it's right along here."

"Gideon Watts knows all about that," rejoined the youthful driver, grimly. "Narrow shake he had, eh?—car almost put out of commission and Gideon sent shooting into the road!"

"That day's work was responsible for Gideon getting the Croix de Guerre," said Dunstan. "He stuck to his post with 'arrivés' dropping all about him like hail. I can't imagine Chase Manning doing that, Don."

Farrington began to chuckle softly, though a strained look appeared in his eyes as he glanced up at the sky.

"Don't know enough about him yet to offer any opinion," returned Don.

Then a silence between the two ensued—a silence which continued while the ambulance was chug-chugging its way up the steep incline. Very soon the summit was reached and the dangerous hill and a crossroad near the top left behind.

Don remarked, reflectively:

"I've been thinking about that trip to the Château de Morancourt, Dunstan."

"I haven't," said the other, very frankly. "My mind, just now, was on high-explosive shells."

Don laughed.

"The same here up to a minute or so ago," he confessed. "But honestly, Dunny, somehow, my curiosity has been excited a whole lot by your story about the château."

"I'm glad to hear it," chuckled the art student.

The road in places was deeply rutted and worn by the passage of countless vehicles, but the driver, skilled in the art of avoiding the bad portions, took his car down a gentle slope at quite a lively pace. At length number eight once more began making an ascent, and it was not very long before the summit of the hill was reached. Turning sharply off on a little spur lying at right angles to the main road, the ambulanciers suddenly came in sight of two cars parked close together.

"Here we are at the outpost!" cried Dunstan, quite gaily. "Hello, fellows! What's been going on?"

The door of an abri, or underground shelter near the cars opened, revealing a glare of electric light inside. Four young Americans hastily emerged, and there was a lively series of salutations. Right behind the boys came three French army surgeons dressed in white.

"Ferd Blane and Jim Roland had a couple of blessés,"[2] called one of the Red Cross drivers. "Meet them?"

"You bet—tooting it along at the dickens of a pace, too."

"What happened?"

"A marmite[3] dropped into the door of a dugout in the first-line trenches."

"Hard luck for some poor poilus!" murmured Don.

With a bit of clever maneuvering he brought his car alongside of the other two, then both he and Dunstan sprang to the ground.

"The Boches have been presenting us with some pretty heavy salutes this morning." The same young chap as before, speaking very cheerfully, imparted the information. "And if you don't believe it"—he smiled—"I can make you acquainted with the sight of several new and jolly big shell-holes."

"I told Don that something was happening in this direction, Ravenstock," replied Dunstan. "The worst for a long time, eh?"

"Well, rather. Enough, too, to make the abri look pretty good to us—n'est-ce pas, Messieurs Rice, Batten and Vincent?"

The Americans appealed to agreed, though all seemed to regard the matter as of little importance. Constant association with danger and thrills had long before accustomed them to the strain.

In another moment Don and Dunstan were following the others into the shelter.

[CHAPTER IV]

UNDERGROUND

The abri was quite a pretentious-looking little place. Over the arching entrance was layer upon layer of sand-bags, and on top of these the earth had been packed into a hard, solid mass, thus affording a good protection from the enemy's fire. The shelter, which was situated only a few hundred yards from the front, also served as a poste de secours,[4] three French army surgeons always being in attendance. Still nearer to No Man's Land, in fact almost directly on the battle-line, and, of course, shielded as well as possible, was a "Refuge des blessés," or dressing station, where the brancardiers, or stretcher bearers, conveyed the wounded for first aid treatment.

The duties of the brancardiers were of the most perilous nature. Frequently the men were obliged to crawl out of the trenches after the fallen soldiers, and then, once burdened with the victims of the great war, their movements were so restricted that it became all the more difficult for them to protect themselves. The soldier may have his reward in fame and glory and wear the hero's crown; the brancardier has little but that which comes from his own conscience.

The wounded were brought in from the first-line trenches through connecting trenches, called in French boyaux, to the poste de secours and the waiting Red Cross cars. The brancards—stretchers—are all of the same size, so that they may be used in any ambulance or railway car. It sometimes happens that a "couchée," which means a lying-down case, generally one of a serious nature, reaches a base hospital on the same stretcher on which he was placed after being picked up on the battle-field.

During the early part of the war the wounded were often obliged to wait a long time before being removed, and it was generally in a slowly-moving horse-drawn vehicle. The advent of the Red Cross and the American Field Ambulance was the means of bringing about a wonderful change. The light cars of the sections could travel fast, and whenever haste was the chief and perhaps deciding factor between life and death the patients could be taken to the field hospitals in from ten to twenty minutes. These hospitals were situated about six or seven kilometers from the front. Usually the base hospitals were placed much further away.

During the fierce fighting which had occurred a short time before, the ambulance section to which Don Hale belonged had carried over two thousand wounded inside of a week.

Over the brow of the hill, about a hundred paces from the poste de secours, the main road began to descend, leading in a rather zigzag fashion to a little one-street village which we shall designate as Montaurennes. Montaurennes, with its air of quiet, rustic beauty, well set off by age-mellowed stuccoed walls enclosing gardens, had, at one time, when viewed between the trees from the hilltop, made a charming picture. Not so now, however. Scarcely a whole house was left standing—the majority had been reduced to disordered heaps of bricks and stones, and of the little spired church which once graced its center only a few pieces of jagged walls remained.

Three times the little village had changed hands, and its streets and lanes had witnessed some of the most terrible hand-to-hand conflicts, when steel met steel, and bayonets—not guns—became the deciding factor.

The Germans, however, were finally dislodged, and now the French trenches cut squarely across the eastern end of the highway. Beyond, though not so very far beyond, running in an irregular fashion across the ridges of the opposite hills, stretched another line of trenches—those held by the Germans.

So the eight who had just entered the abri were very close indeed to the scene of actual warfare.

The underground shelter, the air of which was faintly impregnated with the odor of antiseptics, in the glare of the electric light became revealed as a roomy and comfortable retreat. The principal object which struck the eye on entering was an operating table in the center. There were also several stools, a couple of benches ranged alongside the walls and cots for the surgeons.

The ambulanciers who, during their forty-eight hours of duty at the outpost, always remained fully dressed, were content to get what rest they could on the stretchers. Pictures clipped from newspapers and magazines adorned the walls, and Dunstan had also contributed his talent toward making the place pleasant and cheerful by hanging several of his paintings in conspicuous positions.

The drivers stationed at the outpost questioned Don Hale as eagerly concerning his experiences in Paris as the boys at the Hotel de la Palette had done. Any news was welcome to the ambulanciers, who were compelled to pass so much of their time away from the general haunts of men.

"Why in thunder didn't you bring us a stack of prints?" demanded Ravenstock.

"Look in the car," laughed Don.

"Good old scout!" cried the driver, making a rush outside.

In a moment or two, returning with a bundle of Parisian dailies, he was immediately besieged by the others and left in possession of a single copy. Thereupon all, including the three French surgeons, Docteurs Benoist, Savoye and Vianey, deciding that it would be more pleasant outside, left the shelter and made themselves comfortable by the entrance.

The sun, rising higher in the heavens, sent shafts of light over the ground and spotted the boughs and tree trunks with its radiance. Birds flitting among the branches kept up a constant and noisy chattering.

Dunstan, true to his artistic impulses, began making a sketch of Docteur Benoist, and after more than a half hour of studious application, paused long enough to hold it up for inspection.

"Capital—capital!" exclaimed Docteur Vianey, who possessed some knowledge of English. "What certainty of touch!—worthy of Sargent himself, Monsieur Farrington."

"Sargent! Who's Sargent?" demanded Vincent.

"Great Cæsar, man! Do you mean to stand there and tell me you've never heard of Sargent?" cried Dunstan.

"I'm not standing; I'm sitting," corrected Vincent, with a chuckle.

"Oh, well!" The art student shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "One can't expect too much from the man in the street."

"ONE CAN'T EXPECT TOO MUCH."

"Wrong again," laughed the other. "I'm not in the street."

A short time later Ferd Blane and Jim Roland returned from their trip to the field hospital, and they too gave Don Hale a hearty greeting. In answer to his inquiry concerning the blessés Roland spoke up in a tone of conscious pride:

"The medicine chef said that our quick run may have been the means of saving a life. That's the kind of thing which makes a chap feel satisfied to stick to the job no matter how fast the shells are falling."

"You bet!" agreed Don, heartily.

As they talked the sullen, angry roar of the guns came over the air, and every little while, rising sharply above it, the éclat, or explosion, of a shell landing somewhere among the trees.

At length the surgeons and ambulanciers sought shady spots close to the abri, for the day was growing hot, and only an occasional breath of air stirred the leaves and grasses.

Between twelve and two a curious lull came in the cannonading, an almost daily occurrence, which every one attributed to the fact that even the grim business of war must wait on appetite. The batteries of both sides started up briskly again, but the long hours of the afternoon wore on and drew to a close without the brancardiers bringing in any blessés.

A beautiful sunset sky tinged the tree tops with an echo of its brilliant colors, and as the daylight gradually faded, the moon in the east, shining resplendently, gained in strength until at length the forest became a fairylike place—a place of ghostly, silvery lights and grayish shadows.

Owing to the clearness of the night no traffic was moving close to the front; so the German batteries threw but few shells in the direction of the road.

"I guess I'll get a little rest," declared Rice, as midnight approached.

"So shall I," said Jim Roland. "I'm going to take mine in the car."

"Have a care, mon ami," advised Docteur Vianey.

"That's the trouble; we have too many already," chuckled the ambulancier.

Don and Dunstan, electing to follow Roland's example, a short time later climbed into number eight and made themselves comfortable on the brancards, or stretchers, using a rolled up blanket as a pillow. And while they lay there waiting—still waiting for the call of duty, the whistle of the "arrivés," as the shells which came from the German guns were called, and the "departs"—those hurled by the French batteries—frequently sounded over the air.

But the night passed without any especial incident.

The next day was almost a repetition of the first, and when Don and Dunstan, at the expiration of their forty-eight hour stretch, returned to headquarters they had made only one trip to the field hospital. Each knew, however, that it was only a question of time when the nature of their occupation would necessarily carry them into a great deal more excitement and danger than they cared about.

[CHAPTER V]

UNDER FIRE

It frequently happened that the ambulanciers had been obliged to take their meals in the midst of shell-pitted fields, or perhaps in some little village street. On such occasions planks thrown across a couple of saw-horses served as a table.

At the Hotel de la Palette, however, things were very different. There, in the dining-room of the hostelry, they sat in comfort at the same tables before which, in former times, peasants and care-free patrons had once enjoyed repasts. The room, too, was very attractive, for the visiting artists had recorded with paint and brush their impressions of the charming scenery around. One of these pictures, executed on the panel of a door, was signed by an English landscape artist who later became a celebrated Royal Academician.

The rolling field kitchen, in charge of a French army cook, stood in one corner of the courtyard, and the members of the section took turns in acting as "chow," as the waiter was humorously called.

Don and Dunstan found that during their absence Chase Manning had been doing evacuation work—that is, conveying the wounded from the field hospital to a base hospital further away from the front. They learned, too, that he would be en repos[5] for the day.

"That's fine!" cried Don, as all sat around the breakfast table. "Why not let's pay the Château de Morancourt a visit this afternoon?"

"I'm with you," replied Chase.

"So am I," agreed Dunstan, heartily.

One of the drivers, "Tiny" Mason, began to laugh heartily. He had gained the appellation of "Tiny," so Bodkins explained to the uninformed, because his stature displaced only five feet three inches of atmosphere.

"I suppose you chaps are going to find out all about that missing stuff, eh?" he chuckled.

"If we do I'll let you know," laughed the art student.

Producing a pocket map, he showed his companions the location of the structure.

"Hello! It isn't very far from the Chemin de Mort," exclaimed Don, in surprise.

"Quite correct, my boy," said Dunstan.

"I'd much rather it were in some other direction," muttered Chase.

"Come on, Dunstan, let's get through our work," cried Don, rising from his seat and making a break for the courtyard door. "Old number eight has to be freshened up a bit and overhauled."

This task kept the boys busily occupied until lunch time, but immediately after the meal, accompanied by Chase, they left the hotel and headed toward the east.

The dusty village street was full of reservists; poilus were eating, poilus were lounging about or strolling here and there, all ready at any moment, however, to march to the first-line trenches and face the invisible foe and death.

Now and then, in the midst of all this environment of war, peasants trudged along, sometimes accompanied by children, several so young that they could have known nothing else during their brief existence on earth but the horror, the noise and turmoil of war.

Presently a military car having two stars painted on the right hand corner of the windshield, the insignia of a general, shot past the Americans, and closely following, in the wake of dust which trailed behind, came a motor cyclist with a large wicker basket strapped to his shoulders. Through openings in the receptacle the boys caught a fleeting glimpse of a number of birds.

"A despatch bearer carrying pigeons to the front," declared Dunstan. "I understand they have performed most valuable service in delivering messages, and are seldom killed. Thus does man make use of even the birds of the air to further his ends."

"He'd make use of cats if he could," growled Chase.

Passing the ancient porte, where a sentry gravely saluted them, Don, Dunstan and Chase branched off into a road leading in a northeasterly direction toward the rolling hills and battle-front beyond.

The village fell further and further behind, and finally a rise in the ground hid it from view. At length the three stopped on a hilltop to take a survey of a broad and impressive view of the surrounding country. The surface of the earth in innumerable places presented a most singular appearance. It was as if some giant plow had been driven again and again across it, so turning up the rich brown soil that nature's covering of green was almost entirely obliterated.

"The marmites have made a pretty thorough job of it," remarked Don.

"Why are the big shells called marmites?" inquired Chase.

"Because they gouge a big round hole in the ground somewhat like the shape of a saucepan, in French a marmite," explained the aviator's son.

"Thanks. Ruin—ruin, as far as the vision carries; ruin—ruin beyond, and still further beyond!"

"Yes; but there is something which seems to typify the unconquerable spirit of the nation," exclaimed Dunstan.

With a sweep of his hand he called attention to several peasant women and old men, in sabots or wooden shoes, guiding plows and harrows across a field.

"Farming in this part of France just now certainly has its drawbacks," said Don. "I've heard it said that to one shell which lands in the trenches a hundred drop behind the lines."

Resuming the march, the ambulanciers went down the gentle slopes of the hill. Soldiers had scarcely ever been out of their sight, and now more of them became in evidence. Groups of bearded, sun-tanned men, whose uniforms showed the effects of weather and contact with the earth, were taking things easy in the shade of the trees or along the road.

"But if a bombardment should suddenly start up the timber would seem almost to swallow them," declared the art student. "There must be dugouts and bomb-proof shelters all through these woods."

"Votre laissez passer, messieurs, s'il vous plait!"[6]

A sentry's challenge rang out sharply.

One glance at their papers, and he waved them on.

Up and down hill they tramped. The day was superb, and legions of light, fleecy clouds sent legions of delicate shadows skimming across the landscape. But though peace was in nature the ambulanciers were always forcibly reminded of the fact that the great war was going on all about them.

Over the brow of another ridge a sign conspicuously nailed to a tree brought them to a pause.

"No vehicles further than this by daylight," they read.

"I am a sufficient believer in signs to pay attention to that warning," remarked Chase, with an uneasy look on his face.

"It certainly wouldn't be wise to venture where vehicles may not go," laughed Don.

"Scarcely!" put in Dunstan, dryly.

Retracing their steps, the three soon reached a rather narrow crossroad running in an easterly and westerly direction over a series of hills. After following the much-traveled thoroughfare for a considerable distance, the boys discovering, by the aid of Dunstan's map, that they were being taken out of their way, decided to leave it. The ascent up a steep slope, plentifully bestrewn with vegetation, was so hard and toilsome that all were delighted, on arriving at the top, to discover a broad, almost level field stretching over to a tree-crowned ridge about two hundred and fifty yards away.

"Thank goodness!" panted Chase.

"Let's take a breathing spell," suggested Don.

"Most cheerfully, mes cher amis," said Dunstan.

Seating themselves on the edge of an old shell-crater, the three rested until the effects of their strenuous exertions had entirely disappeared. When they started once more they had gone more than half-way across the field when a figure popped into view over the crest of the opposite ridge with almost the suddenness of a Jack-in-the-Box. It was a poilu—evidently a sentry; for they could see him, stationed by the edge of the trees, making energetic motions, as if he wished to hurry them on.

"I suppose we must be breaking some military regulation and are liable to arrest," said Chase, half jokingly.

To his surprise, Don and Dunstan, looking considerably startled, began to cast apprehensive glances toward the east, at the same time increasing their pace. And then, just as the young chap from Maine was about to put into words a query that had flashed into his mind a most alarming thing occurred.

It was the sharp crack of a rifle and the zip of a bullet, as it struck the ground but a few yards distant and plowed up and scattered a bit of earth.

A terrifying fact was revealed to all—they were in full view of the German "snipers."[7] That broad, peaceful-looking field was in reality a miniature "No Man's Land," where none might tarry for a single instant and expect to live.

[CHAPTER VI]

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

From relative security to the most appalling peril, and all in a moment of time, was the unhappy position into which the three ambulanciers had fallen. It was enough to drive the color from their faces, and send cold chills sweeping one after another through their frames.

The startled cries were still on their lips, when, almost as if a powerful spring had set them into motion, they began a race—a wild and furious race toward their goal—the tree-crowned ridge where the sentry stood. And each of the three ran as only people can run when the stake is the greatest in all the world—life itself.

Zip! Zip! Zip!

A regular fusillade of bullets was wickedly singing and humming past their heads and thudding dully into the turf close about them.

Like professional sprinters on the cinder path trying for a record the ambulanciers exerted themselves to the utmost, sometimes one in the lead, sometimes another. Now and then an obstruction made them swerve aside or inequalities in the ground slacken their pace, but never for a single instant did either of the trio cease his almost superhuman efforts.

Zip! Zip!

Still the bullets came flying through the air, first to one side of them, then to the other, now landing just behind, now just ahead.

Neck and neck, panting, perspiring, the three with their faces exhibiting all the terror and strain which such a situation would naturally create, kept doggedly on.

Neither Don, Dunstan nor Chase actually believed there was one chance in a thousand of winning that race against the snipers' lead. All were in the grasp of fear and despair. Yet, if the boys found their mental faculties tending to yield to the terror of the moment they did not allow that fact to interfere with their physical efforts.

It seemed as if that tree-crowned ridge were as far away as ever.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

No! It never could be reached in safety!

A sharp, startling snap sounded almost at the feet of the aviator's son—a stone had been splintered—shattered, and the fragments narrowly missed him.

Don Hale was puffing harder and harder with the strenuous exertion; his heart seemed to beat with alarming force; a painful dryness had come into his throat. The boy could see Dunstan on his left; Chase on his right; both, like himself, striving with all the energy and determination they possessed to get out of the danger zone.

Crack! Crack!

Suddenly Chase tripped and went sprawling—down he was on his knees, his arms outstretched before him.

Don Hale groaned. To his excited, overwrought imagination, one of them at least had ended his part in the game of life and death.

Notwithstanding an almost irresistible impulse to keep on running, a desperate, flying leap sent him to the other side.

"Chase—Chase!" he gasped, hoarsely. "Chase!"

The other was beginning to scramble up.

"Are you hit, old man?" To Don's relief the other shook his head.

He seized Manning's arm, and, with that strength and vigor often given to those who find themselves in terrible danger, dragged him to his feet. The tension created by that momentary stoppage brought beads of cold, clammy perspiration to the faces of each.

Dunstan had halted and was yelling frantically for them to come on. A stream of bullets hummed past; a single shot struck the ground ahead.

The race was on once more.

It seemed almost miraculous that none of the runners was brought down during the fusillade that immediately followed. Don Hale could scarcely believe it possible. Renewed hope sprang into his heart; renewed strength came into his body.

A dozen yards only—ten—five.

Breathless, almost exhausted, the aviator's son fairly flung himself across the top of the ridge and down on the other side, and as he did so:

Zip! Zip! Crack!

A branch of a sapling, cut cleanly off by a bullet, came tumbling at his feet.

That final effort sent the boy in a heap. But he was happy—extraordinarily happy—filled, indeed, with a gratitude to providence so great that he could have found no words with which to give it expression. He was safe. Dunstan and Chase were safe—wonderful!—almost unbelievable!

It took the three some moments to recover their breath sufficiently to speak, then Dunstan, with a very faint smile, addressed the poilu, or, rather, the poilus, for quite an interested crowd had gathered about them.

"Kindly pardon our haste in dropping over to see you," he exclaimed. "But the Germans were urging us to hurry."

"You should have kept to the road, mes Americaines," declared an artillery lieutenant who stood by the sentry's side. "Had you done so this would never have happened."

"Ah?"

"Yes; there is a notice posted at the top of the hill which reads: 'Danger! Keep to the left!' In future beware of all short cuts. They are apt to be short cuts to death!"

"Very true," acquiesced Don, grimly.

"The experience has been hard on your friend."

Chase Manning was clearly suffering from shock; a pallor had overspread his face; his mouth and eyes were twitching; his strength seemed to have deserted his trembling form. He leaned heavily against a tree trunk for support.

"Not here very long, I suppose?" continued the lieutenant, in a lower tone. "Otherwise——" He made an expressive gesture. "But he'll become habituated in time; one always does."

In a few moments Don and Dunstan were kept busy answering various questions, then the sentry spoke up, saying:

"The time was when the Boches didn't bother to fire at any one crossing that field, but lately they have become quite mechant."[8]

"The truth of the old saying 'All's well that ends well' has been demonstrated to our satisfaction," declared Don, his features relaxing into a faint smile. "Feeling all right now, Chase?"

"No! Who could?" counter-questioned the other, in a tremulous voice. "It was frightful."

And after voicing this opinion young Manning became silent again.

The side of the hill facing the German trenches was absolutely deserted, but the opposite slope the ambulanciers found densely crowded with poilus. And these soldiers of the twentieth century had virtually become modern cave men; for, imitating the example of their primitive ancestors, they had burrowed into the earth and made for themselves habitations. There were hundreds and hundreds of dugouts in the immediate vicinity, all so skilfully concealed or disguised by various devices that a German airman flying directly overhead would in all probability not have discovered their presence.

A long time passed before Chase felt in any mood to join in the conversation, and then, thoroughly disgusted at having allowed his feelings to be so plainly seen, he became more than usually sullen.

Suddenly the ambulanciers discovered that there were other sounds in the air besides the distant booming of cannon and the occasional explosion of a shell.

"Music, as I live!" cried Don Hale. "Where in the world is that coming from?"

He addressed the artillery lieutenant.

"The theatrical performance has just started," answered the officer, with a smile. "Perhaps Messieurs would like to witness the comedy? Plenty of bomb-proof shelters close by," he added, pleasantly.

"Should we like to see it? Yes, indeed," cried the aviator's son, enthusiastically.

"And thus the scene shifts from near-tragedy to comedy!" laughed Dunstan. "Coming, Chase?"

The latter had been showing no inclination to budge from his position, but in answer to the question he gave a gruff assent, then slowly rose to his feet, and Don, standing near by, heard him mutter:

"Awful, awful! I can scarcely believe I'm alive."

As the three Americans followed their soldier-guide along the foot-path, which wound its way in a serpentine direction through the forest, they were greeted everywhere with cordial salutations. The way led past an amazing number of subterranean retreats, representing such a vast amount of time and labor that Dunstan could not help remarking thoughtfully:

"Too bad that so much energy had to be put into work of such a character!"

"I guess that thought was in the mind of every one who helped to dig," growled Chase.

The artillery lieutenant smiled.

"This war has certainly proved as nothing else ever did the wonderful ability of mankind to adapt itself to every sort of condition, no matter how difficult or unusual. It has given tremendous impetus to inventive genius all over the world, particularly in connection with the science of aeronautics. The conquest of the air is almost complete."

"My father is an aviator in the American army," declared Don, proudly. "Formerly he served with a French squadron. Some day I hope to be an airman myself."

"Ah, indeed!" exclaimed the lieutenant, evidently very much pleased. "But ma foi! You are very young."

"Yes. I've no objection to that, however," laughed Don. "I suppose, Monsieur le Lieutenant, there are plenty of guns around here?"

"Do you see any?"

"No; and I don't expect to unless I should happen to find a muzzle sticking right in my face."

"Ah! The art of camouflage is another thing I might have mentioned. But, to change the subject, the Americans have proved themselves very great friends of the French, and to show that I am among those who are appreciative of it I am going to invite you all to pay a visit, whenever it is convenient, to the battery to which I am attached. You accept, n'est-ce pas?"

"I should say so!—eh, mes camarades?" exclaimed Don, enthusiastically.

He turned toward his companions.

The art student assented heartily, though Chase, who still looked pale and haggard, merely muttered his thanks and shrugged his shoulders non-committally.

As the Americans proceeded they became more and more surprised at the immense number of men and dugouts to be seen on every side—indeed they were passing over the top of a veritable underground village, with little lanes running in all directions, so as to afford access to the various quarters.

"Naturally, there isn't always so much life and activity on this hill," said the lieutenant, when Don mentioned the subject. He pointed to the surrounding forest. Many of the trees had been snapped in twain by high-explosive shells, while others lay prostrate on the ground; indeed, but very few had escaped being scarred, gashed or broken by the various bombardments. "Sometimes it is just as dangerous as you found it back yonder."

At this reminder of their thrilling experience Chase Manning perceptibly shivered.

"That's the kind of an experience which will stick in a fellow's memory forever," he said, almost as if speaking to himself. The grim look suddenly flashed away from his face. "Don, you're a brave kid."

"Oh, it wasn't anything!" broke in the aviator's son, lightly. "You would have done the same."

The sound of music had been growing steadily louder, and now the melodious strains of a song chanted by hundreds of voices were wafted through the forest. It was very charming—very idyllic, and in strange contrast to the sounds of warfare coming from the distance.

A rather sharp turn, and they arrived almost abruptly at a clearing. To one side, at the very edge of the trees, the ambulanciers caught sight of a little stage, where the soldier-actors were going through their parts with considerable fervor. And they were playing before a large and enthusiastic audience, to whom, apparently, thoughts of war were the very last in their minds.

"The comedy is the work of one of our officers," explained the lieutenant. "It is entitled 'The Poilu's Ten Days in Paris.' I hope, mes Americaines, you will find it worth more than the price of admission."

"No doubt about that," laughed Don.

"The last performance was abruptly terminated by a shell falling only a short distance from the stage. We must trust that to-day the boys will have better luck."

"You can just bet we do," mumbled Chase.

The artillery officer conducted them as close as he could to the little improvised theater, then, after a brief conversation, during which he reminded them of their promise to pay the battery a visit, and stated that his name was Lieutenant D'Arraing, he bowed politely and was speedily lost to view.

The ambulanciers found themselves quite the center of attraction, and so much good humor and jollity around them went very far toward effacing from the minds of all the remembrance of their recent peril.

Dunstan very aptly described the play presented by the amateur actors as "rip-roaring farce." A great many most extraordinary things occurred during the "Poilu's Ten Days in Paris," and the pleasure of witnessing all these laughable episodes was considerably enhanced, at least according to the ideas of the boys, by the choruses, in which the audience generally joined. An orchestra of five did valiant service.

Altogether the Americans enjoyed the performance hugely, though several times the explosions of shells sounded with unpleasant distinctness.

After it was all over Don, Dunstan and Chase met so many poilus who were eager to converse with them, especially on the subject of America's entrance into the great war, that their departure was long delayed—so long delayed indeed that an idea came into the art student's head.

"Fellows," he said, "there's a great deal in first impressions."

"What's the sequel to that remark?" asked Chase.

"It just occurred to me that we might tarry around here even longer, so that we might get our first view of the famous Château de Morancourt by the mystic light of the moon."

"'Peewee' should have heard that!" chuckled Don.

"If your artistic spirit craves that shadows and gloom should hover over the old pile of stones and make it suggest a picture-postal, so be it," grinned Chase.

"Very good!" said Dunstan.

Standing by the side of a tree, he began tapping on the bark.

The smiling Don translated the following message:

"Perhaps the castle by moonlight may be too much for our friend's nerves."

The aviator's son replied:

"I wonder if he'll have an irresistible impulse to run."

"He wasn't cut out for this sort of life."

"No; an easy chair in an office for him."

"Bodkins' woodpeckers again!" broke in Chase, with a yawn. "A funny kind of a habit, I call it."

"Maybe so," grinned Don.

The three began to stroll leisurely here and there, quite often accompanied by one or more of the poilus. Down by a little creek they came across a number lined up alongside the bank engaged in the prosaic occupation of washing clothes and hanging them out to dry on convenient saplings and branches.

"Another illustration of man's adaptability," laughed Don.

In the midst of congenial company, with much to interest them, time passed rapidly, and finally the ambulanciers, who had brought supper with them, took seats on a bit of turf and began their meal.

And though at times the mosquitoes and gnats made things decidedly uncomfortable, there they remained until the sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon and the moonbeams were gaining sufficient strength to reveal their presence upon the face of nature.

Then Dunstan jumped to his feet, exclaiming:

"It's time for us to be on the move."

"Hooray! Now for the last stretch!" cried Don.

"And the Château de Morancourt by moonlight!" added Chase.

[CHAPTER VII]

THE CHÂTEAU

About a quarter of an hour later the three Americans were standing before a high and ornamental gateway which led into the great park belonging to the château. Only a small portion of the De Morancourt coat of arms which once adorned it remained in place, and the ancient bricks showed in many places the destructive effects of German shells.

"This must be one of those real, bona-fide, genuine châteaus we read about," commented Chase.

"Yes; according to what I have been told it dates back to the time of Louis the Fourteenth," said the art student.

"I do wonder what could have become of all those pictures and art treasures!" mused Don.

"A lot of other people have been wondering, too; and whether they will ever get beyond the wondering stage or not is problematical."

"Suppose we get into the wandering stage."

"I don't see any stage."

"At any rate, let us hope there won't be anything unlucky about this stage of our journey," put in Chase, dryly.

Entering the grounds, the three found themselves on a wide carriage road, bordered on each side with stately trees. The moonlight flooded the scene with unusual brilliancy, and some of the ancient oaks, which had escaped the destroying shells, made a grimly-impressive picture, as their boughs and branches were silhouetted against the steely bluish tones of the sky. Here and there the roadway was deeply shadowed; in other places, it gleamed with a ghostly paleness amid the surrounding gloom.

At one time the park had evidently been anything but a haven of refuge; for the same sort of havoc which existed elsewhere was to be found on all sides—fallen trees, mutilated trunks and the earth torn up by projectiles. And Chase Manning observed, with considerable uneasiness, that some of the shells must have very recently fallen.

"I declare, this makes me think of some of those old-time romantic novels!" declared Dunstan, with enthusiasm. "What an air of charm and mystery there is all about us! And look, mes amis, what do I see?—Actually a marble group which has probably weathered the storm of centuries past and strangely enough even escaped the present danger!"

In a glade to their left the ambulanciers saw what had once been a fountain. The center of the spacious marble basin was occupied by a gigantic figure of Neptune surrounded by a number of rearing and plunging horses. In the full glare of the moonlight, portions of the ancient marble forms were clearly revealed in broad masses of greenish white, against the background of trees beyond; the rest disappeared in the shadows.

Even Chase—Chase who rarely took heed of the pleasing or the picturesque—gave an exclamation expressive of admiration.

"By George!—just to see that is worth all the trouble we have taken!" cried Don, as they walked up to obtain a view at closer range.

"At some future time it means another sketch for my portfolio," declared Dunstan. "How very still these fiery-looking horses simulating rapid action are," he continued, reflectively, "but how vivid the impression of life and activity each conveys to the mind! And how very silent they are! Yet one gifted with a little imagination can almost hear them snorting, in their haste and excitement."

"Pretty good, boy! Keep it up," said Chase.

"And Neptune, gaunt and threatening, with his arm upraised, appears to be urging them on, as though unmindful of the fact that he and they are forever destined to remain immovable!"

"Bravo!"

Standing before the time-worn group, in the lonely and deserted park, with the vegetation all about them rustling in the faint breeze, Don Hale felt a peculiar sensation of awe stealing over him.

"Dunstan was right—it makes a chap almost feel as if he were living in another age," he thought. And then, aloud, the aviator's son exclaimed: "How curious it is to think that perhaps two or three hundred years ago people may have looked upon this very same group!"

"Yes; in all probability kings and courtiers, grand seigneurs and noble dames once cast their eyes upon it," remarked Dunstan. "Ah, if I could only invoke the muse, what a grand poem I could compose!"

"And by so doing either provoke or amuse us," chuckled Chase, with the first laugh he had been heard to utter during the day.

"Good!—Chase's second joke!" cried Don, approvingly.

"Allons, mes amis—let's go!"

The trio, skirting around the fountain, reached the road again and continued to tramp steadily on. The way led up a slight ascent, and occasionally, through openings in the trees, they caught glimpses of charming bits of scenery, with shadowy, mysterious-looking hills looming up beyond. Then they observed what had once been very wonderful lawns, but which were now mere fields overrun with weeds and tall grasses and deeply pitted here and there with shell-holes.

They were approaching a bend, and the moment the turn was reached Dunstan stopped short, and, with a wave of his hand, exclaimed dramatically:

"'Behold yon tower;

Mark well those crumbling walls—

Those silent chroniclers of years gone by,

Of tyranny and tears!'"

"The Château de Morancourt is before our eyes!" cried Don. "Hooray!"

"The park seems to equal the château and the château to equal the park," commented Chase.

Not far ahead, situated on the crest of a hill, the grim-looking mediæval structure, with its wings and gables and partly demolished tower, presented a singularly impressive appearance. From where they stood the soft, mysterious light of the moon mercifully concealed from view the great damage wrought by the missiles.

"En avant!—Forward march!" cried Dunstan. "Isn't it curious to think, fellows, that not so very long ago the Germans learned about the tower being used as an observation post, and the result was——"

"That there are no longer any observers, I suppose?" broke in Don.

"Exactly!"

"A nice place you have led us to!" growled Chase.

He gave a perceptible start, for at that very instant a star shell soared majestically up from the German lines, and then, having reached a great altitude, burst into flames, casting all around it a brilliant whitish glare.

The nearer the ambulanciers approached the Château de Morancourt the grander and more awesome the massive structure appeared. Over the air from afar came the faint rumble of the convoys, but a strange, melancholy silence, which accorded well with the solemn aspect of the building and its surroundings, hovered over the park.

"How suggestive of dark deeds and mystery!" murmured Dunstan. Then he added, meditatively: "I wonder if we couldn't manage to get a look inside!"

"By all means let's try," cried Don.

The three walked under a magnificent porte-cochère, supported by graceful pillars, and came to a halt before the entrance. It was very dark and somber in the shadow—so dark and somber indeed that the massive door which surmounted a broad flight of stone steps leading up on either side could be scarcely seen.

Don, Dunstan and Chase could make out the dim outlines of a marble lion supporting a shield which stood on a pedestal at the bottom of the escalier, or steps. Without stopping to admire its savage and formidable appearance, they began to mount, feeling their way by means of the massive marble balustrade. Arriving at the top, Dunstan gave the big door a vigorous push. So did Don and Chase. Once, twice—three times they tried it, but their efforts were of no avail.

"Nothing doing!" growled Chase. "It would take a German shell to open that ton of door."

"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again," laughed Don.

By this time, their eyes having become more accustomed to the darkness, they were able to discern some of the details on the great entrance and on the magnificent lamps which flanked it to the right and left.

"Splendid," exclaimed Dunstan. "It makes me all the more determined to gain an entrance."

And so speaking, he skipped lightly down the opposite flight of steps. His companions clattered after him.

Then the three began walking along by the side of the building, and though it was all very much obscured it was not so dark as to prevent them from detecting the presence of scars and holes and cracks which everywhere disfigured the walls. Passing around several wings into the full glare of the moonlight, the ambulanciers kept steadily on until the imposing façade of the château was reached. Great bay windows and projecting portions relieved the structure from any appearance of monotony, and here and there thick masses of vines climbing over the weather-stained walls helped to soften their grim and threatening aspect. The lower windows were within easy reach of the ground, and as Don Hale's eyes lighted on the third from the end he gave a loud cry of exultation.

"Look, fellows—how's that for luck! There's one almost entirely demolished."

"Unkind fate for the château is kind fate for us," exclaimed Dunstan.

"I hope we shall not find ourselves in a waking nightmare," declared Chase. "I'm not so keen about going inside."

"Oh, pshaw!" broke in the aviator's son, impatiently.

He sprinted over to the window, and, reaching up, gripped hold of the sill. Strong and muscular, it was an easy task for the boy to draw himself up and climb astride it. Leaning forward, he peered eagerly inside the room. The window, like every other along that side of the building, admitted a shaft of moonlight, which, for a short distance, streaked weirdly across the floor. Don found himself staring at his own shadow, singularly clear-cut in the midst of the pale greenish-blue patch before him; then his glances wandered beyond. But all was shrouded in deep obscurity.

Without hesitation the boy eased himself down into the room, which he could tell was of immense and imposing dimensions.

"Come on, fellows," he called, "so in case I fall into the cellar you can pick me up."

Bringing forth a small flash-light from an inside pocket, Don turned on the brilliant rays just as the figure of Dunstan loomed up in the window.

"This is an adventure that appeals to my imagination," remarked the art student, cheerfully, as he clambered down and joined his companion.

A moment later Chase stood beside them.

Don Hale sent the beam of light flashing all around them, and as its rays revealed the richness of the interior all three ambulanciers gave voice to emphatic expressions of admiration.

"Great, splendid—superb!" cried Dunstan. "I've just discovered what's been the matter with me all along—this is the sort of place I should have lived in."

"Quite naturally; artists as a rule inhabit castles," remarked Chase, dryly, "though sometimes they are airy, like the stuff of which dreams are made. By George, fellows, what a spooky-looking place!"

"It is, indeed," asserted Dunstan, meditatively. "Strange that the Count de Morancourt should have left without putting his goods in storage!"

"Nothing strange about it," said Don. "I reckon the furniture vans wouldn't have lasted very long—see!" The light fell across several huge apertures in the opposite wall which told of the accuracy of the German artillery. "Must have been pretty hot around here, eh?"

"Quite so," responded Dunstan laconically.

The three walked around a massive oak table in the center of the room and then up to a huge fireplace at one end, where they halted. The ribbon of light quivered and flashed on an ancient suit of armor hanging just above and from there traveled to a great shield with the coat of arms of the De Morancourts emblazoned upon it. Higher up the head of a stag suddenly popped forth from the darkness, its glassy eyes seeming to stare down upon them with a look of wonder.

"Perhaps, in the age of the bow and arrow, some old ancestor of the count's brought him low," commented Chase.

Led by Don Hale, the ambulanciers continued their tour of inspection. Now the flash-light brought into view old tapestries of mellow and harmonious tones, or rows of ancestral portraits, many probably dating from the dim and distant past. The earliest of these, very somber in tone and much cracked, represented the De Morancourts as stern-visaged and august-looking personages who had a penchant for wearing armor and clasping heavy swords.

"I shouldn't like to have any old chaps of their type challenging me to fight a duel," laughed Dunstan. "Suppose we see what the rest of the château has to offer us."

Both footsteps and voices echoed in a most uncanny fashion, and Chase found that somehow the darkness and mystery of the great interior were producing rather creepy sensations within him. Often, to his imagination, the room became peopled with an assemblage of the great personages of the past. And then, though he knew it was quite absurd, an unpleasant, vaguely-defined fear assailed him that at any moment some one might step out of the shadows and demand the reason for their presence in those ancestral halls.

The next apartment the visitors entered was almost as large and even more gorgeous than the preceding. A magnificent oval painting adorned the ceiling. The walls were wainscoted with oak, and a richly-carved mantelpiece of the same wood particularly attracted the ambulanciers' attention.

"Now I can better understand the value of the things which disappeared," declared Chase. "No wonder such a howl went up."

"I hate mysteries which are never solved," cried Don. "I wish to goodness that before the section moves on some one would get busy and give us an answer to this riddle."

"No danger," grunted Chase.

In a deep bay window the light disclosed fine stained glass, evidently of rich colors and graceful designs.

So interested was the young chap from Maine in examining the various furnishings that he did not notice a chair lying in his path until he brought up against it with considerable violence.

Uttering an exclamation of impatience, he gave the offending piece of furniture a vigorous shove, which sent it flying directly into the curtained doorway leading to the dining-room.

"Hurt yourself?" asked Dunstan, pleasantly.

"Not enough for it to get any mention in the Parisian papers," growled the other.

The Red Cross men thought that the dining-room, with its heavily-beamed ceiling, carved sideboards and china closets, in spite of a certain air of heaviness and austerity, must have been a very pleasant place in which to eat.

"The château seems more like a museum than a place of residence," declared Don. "But, fellows, we'd better hustle a bit faster. You know a German marmite may be flying in this direction at any minute."

"A sensible suggestion," said the art student; "for nothing is more certain than that we are in the midst of the greatest of uncertainties."

Reaching the entrance hall they discovered a very elegant staircase, with ornate newel posts and balustrades, ascending to a balcony.

"Just a moment—let's finish our inspection of the first floor before venturing into the unknown regions above," exclaimed Chase.

Cautiously following the pathway of light, which ever streamed far in advance, the trio presently entered a long apartment which brought forth involuntary exclamations of admiration from all.

"The ballroom!" cried Dunstan.

"And the show-place of the whole château," exclaimed Don.

"It certainly is a show, all right," commented Chase. "What staggering sums of money it must have taken to run such an establishment!"

"I don't think I could have managed it on my income," laughed Don.

On one side of the ballroom stretched gilded mirrors and magnificent decorations, while on the other a long row of high, arched windows faced the park. In whichever direction the light traveled some new and unexpected beauty flashed into view. The beams sparkled and shone on candelabra, on paintings and tapestries, and sometimes reaching up to the ceiling disclosed a bluish vault, in imitation of the heavens, studded with golden stars.

"Enough of this!" cried Chase, suddenly. "We don't want to stay here all night."

And turning abruptly on his heel, the new member of the Red Cross hurried away.

A few moments later the three uninvited visitors were ascending the stairway.

[CHAPTER VIII]

A MAN-HUNT

Some time previously a certain projectile had left a certain gun situated a certain distance to the rear of the German trenches, and this shell, no doubt owing to the correct calculations of a certain artillery officer, had exploded so near the Château de Morancourt as to destroy the upper portion of the tower. Perhaps it was this very same shell which had caused the French to decide that the château could no longer be used as an observation post.

"Let Americans not rush in where French officers fear to tread!" chuckled the aviator's son, as they entered the doorway leading to the tower.

Yet, notwithstanding his levity, the boy felt a certain sense of awe—of solemnity. There they were, in a place which only recently the Germans had made a target for their shells, and he fully realized that should suspicion be aroused, even in the slightest degree, it would mean another bombardment.

Had the builders of the ancient tower designed it for the purpose of giving the beholder a vivid impression of a prison they had succeeded well. The solid masonry and the long, narrow windows, heavily barred, through which the light feebly sought admittance, were all calculated to produce that effect.

As a matter of precaution, Don shut off the light, then headed the advance up the circular flight of stone steps.

"Remember—eternal vigilance is the price of life," exclaimed Dunstan.

"Oh, cut out such theatrical stuff," broke in Chase, impatiently.

The ambulanciers ascended higher and higher until they reached the summit, which was broken and jagged.

"Thus far shalt thou go, and no further," chanted Chase, in sepulchral tones.

With the utmost caution, Don Hale peered over the wall.

How high up it seemed!—higher by far than he had ever imagined. From his lofty position he could look over the roof of the main building and wings and see the moonlight gleaming here and there. Then his eyes took in a portion of the rear walls, deep in shadow, their base and the porte-cochère, so far below, losing themselves in the darkness.

"Magnificent!" he exclaimed.

The far-reaching view embraced the ranges of rolling hills to the east. Between the Red Cross men and that wide sweep of ridges, patched with soft, indefinite masses of lights and shadows, wherein charm and mystery rested in equal degrees, lay that stretch of territory known as "No Man's Land"—the most dangerous spot on the globe. On one hand it was bounded by the French trenches; on the other by the German.

"And all along its tortuous course of hundreds of miles through Belgium and France there is but ruin and desolation!" exclaimed Dunstan Farrington, in thoughtful tones. "Farms, villages, towns and forests have paid the penalty for being in its sinister path. Sometimes it sweeps forward, then moves back again, as surprise assaults and counter-attacks are made by one side or the other. Every day, perhaps every hour, its position is responsible for some new horror and tragedy."

"Yes," said Don, slowly.

"Then, just think of all the devices for causing destruction and sudden death which lie concealed everywhere on its narrow width," put in Chase. His morose manner returned in full force. "Nothing that the ingenuity of man can conceive of has been neglected."

"But even that isn't enough to prevent patrols of French and German infantrymen from crawling beyond their own wire entanglements during the night on reconnoitering expeditions," interjected Don. "Whew!" he shivered slightly. "What courage—what sang-froid it must require!"

"Excuse me from trying it," said Chase.

The guns had never ceased rumbling, and occasionally the sharp cracking of rifles or the staccato reports of machine guns, astonishingly clear, jarred over the air.

"Dunstan—your field-glass, if you please!"

It was the aviator's son who spoke.

Silently Dunstan drew the instrument from its case and passed it to his companion.

The boy immediately raised the glass to his eyes and gave a little gasp of pleasure.

Beyond the park, in fact, far beyond the point where its limitations were marked by a row of tall poplars, which, like grim and forbidding sentinels stood by the boundary walls, he could see a field of wheat, waving and rippling in the breeze.

Why did a sort of thrill run through him?

Because the aviator's son felt reasonably sure that he looked upon a portion of that famous area between the lines. The proof was this: On the slopes of the hill which hemmed it in the powerful glass brought into view a faint, irregular row of whitish objects, a wall of sand-bags crowning the German trenches.

In rapt silence, Don gazed upon the distant landscape. How strangely serene and beautiful it appeared in the silvery light of the moon! And just as he was about to utter some of the thoughts which the poetic scene evoked in his mind, he gave a slight start, lowered the glass and faced Dunstan Farrington.

"What was that?" Don exclaimed.

"What was what?" demanded the other.

"Didn't you hear a noise?"

"No."

"Where?" asked Chase, interestedly.

"Down below—in the château itself."

"In the château itself!" repeated Manning. A suspicious note crept into his voice. "You're joking, son!"

"No sir, I'm not," asserted Don, emphatically. "It was very faint, but distinct, and sounded exactly like something falling."

"It's a case of nerves," declared Chase, a little disagreeably. "Forget it."

Don Hale, however, couldn't be convinced that he was mistaken, though perceiving how skeptical the others were he wisely made no attempt to argue about the matter.

Chase took an observation through the field-glass, so did Dunstan, and each was as interested as Don Hale in seeing "No Man's Land" seemingly brought so close to their eyes.

"Now I'm through with the Château de Morancourt," declared Chase, finally. "What's the use of tempting fate any longer? There wouldn't be very much glory in letting a marmite get us while we're engaged in sightseeing, eh?"

"I've decided objections to it," chuckled Don.

"There has been a wonderful change in the splendor of warfare," said Dunstan, who appeared not to have heard these observations. "No longer the dashing cavalry charges led by officers with waving swords; no longer troops, victorious and triumphant, surging in irresistible masses across the smoke-filled battle-field in hot pursuit of their routed enemy, but foes invisible to one another plugging away, using scientific calculations to attain their ends!"

"But the picturesque is now more extraordinary than ever, mon ami," put in Chase. "Think of the firework displays! See!—there is a trifling manifestation of their possibilities before us!"

A red signal rocket had suddenly shot up, illuminating the surroundings with a strange, lurid glow. Then a white and a blue flare followed it into the sky.

"You are quite right, Chase," assented the art student. "Ah, how that transforms the appearance of the landscape! Now it suggests a wonderfully imaginative picture. Hello!—going?"

Chase was already on the way. His two companions followed him, and as the three descended the stone steps every sound of voice or movement was weirdly increased in volume by the confining walls.

Don Hale's thoughts were still on the noise which had reached his ears. It vaguely conveyed to his mind an impression that others besides themselves were in the ancient château—an unpleasant reflection, conjuring up visions of unseen eyes watching them from the gloomy shadows.

By this time the somberness and depressing air which everywhere lurked within the walls of the Château de Morancourt had affected all three alike—each was longing to get out in the open air.

Therefore, after stepping from the tower, the Red Cross men made only a brief inspection of the rooms on the upper floor, and these they found comported well with the general elegance of the rest of the structure.

At length the three started down the grand stairway, with Don Hale's flash-light guiding the way. Reaching the foot they crossed the hall and pushed aside the heavy curtains hanging at the entrance to the next apartment.

And at the very instant Don Hale passed the portal he gave utterance to a loud exclamation of surprise.

"Look, look!" he cried.

The others at once grasped the significance of his words. The rays of light were streaming over the chair with which Chase had collided, but the piece of furniture was not in the place they had seen it last.

"Great Julius Cæsar!" blurted out Chase.

"Strange—strange!" murmured Dunstan.

"Now maybe you won't think I was right!" exclaimed the aviator's son. "Somebody must have bumped into that chair, Monsieur Manning, and knocked it over."

"What other explanation could there be?" agreed Dunstan.

"Which means to say that we haven't been the only prowlers in the De Morancourt palace to-night," muttered Chase, his voice betraying a most uncomfortable state of mind.

"No."

The proof was conclusive—there could be no question about it: some person or persons had been in that very room while the ambulanciers were up in the tower. Now there was, indeed, something quite startling in this thought. Who could the other, or others, have been? What was their object in entering? And did they still linger in the château?

For a perceptible interval of time the boys stood in silence. The weirdness and loneliness of the situation, with only a narrow band of light between them and the deepest gloom, intensified a curious tingling sensation which the discovery had produced in the nerves of each.

"What can it mean?" exclaimed Dunstan.

Don's light was swiftly flashing and criss-crossing in every direction, and not a single portion of the great apartment had escaped its glare when he declared:

"Fellows, there's certainly no one besides ourselves in this room."

"Can there be no hiding places?"

"It seems not."

"If there is any one within the sound of my voice let him step forward!" exclaimed Chase.

His voice, raised so as to penetrate far beyond, rang out with startling distinctness.

A moment of great expectancy followed.

No answer was received.

"Come on, fellows! Let's get busy," burst out Don, impatiently.

This proposition did not at all appeal to Chase Manning, but he made no protest, his fear of ridicule being greater than his fear of the unseen and the unknown.

So, instead of leaving the Château de Morancourt at once, as they had intended, the three ambulanciers began a tramp from one great hall to another, searching—searching. And though the "man-hunt," as Don Hale dubbed it, proved both interesting and exciting it brought forth no result.

After the lapse of three-quarters of an hour they were back in the apartment which they had first entered, and Dunstan thereupon straightened himself up, exclaiming:

"No use, boys—the other visitors have probably gone."

"I'm not so certain about that," declared Don.

"The only thing I'm certain about is that I intend to go," cried Chase, "and any one who tries to prevent it will have the privilege of bringing an assault and battery charge against me."

"The Château de Morancourt has been the center of too many stormy times for us to start another," chuckled the aviator's son.

Dunstan, standing by the big oak table, tapped upon its surface.

"Chase has stood it better than I thought," he rapped in the Morse code.

The answer he received was this:

"Yes, after a while he may surprise us all with his courage."

"You chaps are incorrigible," jerked out Chase. "I never knew before that woodpeckers kept at it both day and night."

So speaking, he made a break for the window.

Don and Dunstan trailed after him, and all lost no time in climbing outside.

"A jolly interesting experience, I call it!" exclaimed Don.

"Altogether too much so," grunted Chase, laconically.

"Suppose we return by a different route," said the art student.

They started along a wide carriage road which led between broad, level lawns dotted here and there with groups of statuary.

Before descending the slope on the opposite side of the hill, the three, with a common impulse, halted to take a last look at the ancestral home of the De Morancourts looming up against the moonlit sky.

"Maybe I wouldn't give a whole lot to know who was the second bumper into that chair!" declared Don.

"Not any more than the rest of us," said Dunstan dryly. "But there's no earthly chance of our ever knowing."

"Of course not," snapped Chase. "Just add it to the list of things one might as well forget."

It was very delightful out there in the midst of the big park, with the moon and stars shining so brightly overhead and beautiful vistas here and there opening out before their eyes, and even the desultory reports of the guns and the occasional sight of star-shells rising heavenward contributed a peculiar sort of charm to the situation. The ambulanciers, busily conversing, lingered longer than they had intended.

Suddenly, Don Hale, breaking off in the middle of a sentence, blurted out loudly:

"I say, fellows, I say—just gaze at that!"

[CHAPTER IX]

THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW

Dunstan and Chase, startled, faced him.

"Well, what's the latest sensation?" cried Chase.

"Didn't you see it?"

"See what?" queried Dunstan, excitedly.

"A light—a light flashing in one of the windows of the château."

"A light flashing in one of the windows!"

"Yes, yes; as sure as I'm standing here I saw a streak of light."

Although neither Dunstan nor Chase had observed it they were by no means incredulous. If some one had been in the château before, why not now?

There was something very strange—very mysterious in the whole affair. To the minds of the Red Cross men it became quite clear that the person, or persons, had known of their presence in the building and purposely kept out of their way, though for what reason, of course, none could conjecture.

"And so the adventure continues!" exclaimed Chase, rather slowly.

"Curious—curious indeed!" murmured Dunstan.

Don Hale's eyes were dilated with excitement and interest.

"Yes, sir, I just happened to catch it!" he cried. "A bright spot appeared for a single instant—then was gone. Shall we go back and investigate?"

"I certainly haven't the slightest intention of doing so," responded Chase, most emphatically. "Besides, what good would it do? Whoever is there would probably keep out of sight the same as they did before."

Don thereupon appealed to Dunstan.

The latter, however, shook his head.

"I reckon Chase is right," he replied.

Full of the ardor of youth and possessing in addition an adventurous spirit, the aviator's son, considerably disappointed, argued, pleaded and protested, and it is very probable that but for Chase Manning Dunstan would have willingly acceded to his wishes.

At length the youngest ambulancier, philosophically resigning himself to defeat, declared:

"Boys, I won't rest until I find out what it all means."

"Then I think you'll have to go without rest for a mighty long time," quoth Chase.

Long and earnestly the three stared toward the château, expecting and hoping to see a repetition of the light.

All the windows, however, remained but blank, gloomy patches of dark.

"Too little of this sort of thing is more than enough," declared Chase, presently. "It may take a German marmite or two to drive you chaps away, but not yours truly. En avant! Allons! Skip!"

"All right, mon generale," laughed Don. "Good-bye, old château!" He bowed and waved his hand toward the building. "When shall we four meet again?"

"I wonder!" said Dunstan, meditatively.

Down the gentle slope they went, soon discovering that the road, deeply shadowed in places by the thick woods on either hand, swung sharply around in a westerly direction. And not once during their journey through the great park could another glimpse of the Château de Morancourt be obtained.

The high ornamental wrought iron gate at the end of the carriage road was securely locked, but the ambulanciers, being both nimble and athletic, very easily climbed over the high stuccoed wall and lowered themselves into a rather narrow and dusty highway.

Dunstan promptly consulted his map, and having determined what route to follow, led the way.

To a stranger in the war zone that walk through the French countryside would undoubtedly have been a memorable one; for every now and again the booming of the artillery increased in violence, the sky flared with strange lights and more than once the ears of the ambulanciers caught the sinister scream of a shell; but familiarity with such things had served to dull the boys' sense of danger.

A battery to the north suddenly started into action, fired a number of rounds with tremendous rapidity, then relapsed into silence.

"We are living in a great age," declared Dunstan.

"It is certainly a little grating to some," said Chase.

A half hour's journey through a devastated country brought the Red Cross men to a little one-street village.

During their sojourn in northern France both Don and Dunstan had seen many ruined towns and villages, but in none was the destruction so complete as here. The pale moonlight streaming over this once peaceful little hamlet revealed indescribable havoc. Some buildings had been blown to pieces; of others but a few bits of jagged wall remained; almost everywhere piles of débris littered the ground and enormous shell-holes lined the disused road. This village was indeed a forlorn and melancholy-looking place. Not a sign of life! Not a sound to indicate the presence of other human beings. And yet, as the steady footfalls of the three Americans rang out on the cobbled pave, an animal scurrying into view from behind a wall dashed across their path. They had an instantaneous view of a pair of gleaming yellow eyes turned inquiringly toward them. Then the animal continued its wild course along the road, to disappear presently around the bend.

"Poor cat! What an eventful existence it must have had!" commented Dunstan. "Just think of the sensations the creature probably experienced when its intellectual superiors were pelting this place with shells!"

"From the looks of things one might suppose that nothing else escaped alive," remarked Don, walking across the street in order to gaze upon a conspicuous sign placed on the front of a tottering wall.

"Cave de Refuge"

"An echo of something that has passed!" said Dunstan. "No doubt at one time the cave, as the French call a cellar, served a very useful purpose. Allons—allons!"

Turning the bend, the three unexpectedly came upon a huge camion[9] resting on its side, the bluish-gray shadow of its massive form streaking fantastically across the road.

"Another symbol of the twentieth century!" growled Chase.

There could be no question as to what had happened: three wheels and a part of the rear of the vehicle had been destroyed, and the days of that particular camion were over forever.

The Red Cross men gathered around the battered object, once so powerful, now so inert and powerless, and speculated as to the consequences which had followed its destruction. What had happened to the drivers? Was that camion a temporary monument marking the spot where some obscure heroes had fallen?

"That's another thing we'll never know," said Dunstan, thoughtfully, after Don had given expression to such reflections.

Even to the aviator's son and the art student, who had had many unusual experiences in the war zone, there was something very strange and unique in going through a village so absolutely devoid of life. The utter silence, the wreck and ruin about them, the ghostly lights and bluish shadows half revealing, half concealing the details, all seemed to impart an air of curious unreality to the scene.

Continuing on, the ambulanciers were often compelled to climb over piles of wreckage which stretched across the entire width of the street, and their feet occasionally kicked up fragments of shells. Toward the center of the village the destruction was even more complete, and yet, strangely enough, not far beyond a roofless, spireless little church stood a gray, stuccoed building almost intact. Across the façade was painted in bold, black letters:

"Au Cheval Noir
Café and Restaurant"

"By George! What a kind fate has hovered over that place!" cried Don.

"Don't worry. Old Mars will get it yet," rejoined Chase.

"From the sublime to the ridiculous—the Château de Morancourt and the Cheval Noir!" put in Dunstan. "Let us visit the place."

"Of course," laughed Don.

The boys had not the slightest difficulty in following out the plan, as there was no door to bar their progress. Don led the way inside; and the three had only advanced a few feet into the shadowy interior when they heard an animal scurrying rapidly about, and the next instant a dark form, but dimly seen in the gloom, dashed frantically across the floor, whisked out into the roadway and was gone.

"Hello!—that cat again!" exclaimed Dunstan. "We seem to be seriously disturbing the poor creature's peace of mind. Turn on the light, Don."

A click sounded; then the flash-light, cutting a passage through the darkness, fell across a number of chairs and tables.

"Remarkable!" exclaimed Dunstan. "Apparently not a thing disturbed!"

"Yes, sir, it looks just exactly as if the Cheval Noir was open and ready for business," declared Don.

"Too bad it isn't!" sighed Chase. "I'm just in the mood for a jolly big meal."

"Oh, garçon, a bifteck aux pommes! Des haricots blancs! Une tasse de café noir!" sang out Don.

"If you order any more beefsteak and potatoes, beans and coffee there's going to be a right lively disturbance in the Cheval Noir," chuckled the art student. "I didn't realize before how hungry I was. Be seated, Messieurs. The treat is on me."

Thereupon the ambulanciers dropped into chairs which were ranged alongside a marble-topped table.

The interior of the Cheval Noir was decidedly typical of French inns. Facing the door stood a long counter, and its metal portions gleamed, sparkled and shone as Don's light played across their surfaces. Even the big clock which had once solemnly ticked off the passage of time hung in its place on the wall behind the counter.

"Another unusual experience!" drawled Dunstan. "How odd it is to be sitting here, monarchs of all we survey, and yet with nothing but a cozy inviting appearance to give us cheer. Say what you will, fellows, an air of comfort pervades these places that our up-to-date establishments in the new world sometimes seem to lack."

"And by way of compensation they also lack the cobwebs and the dirt," said Chase, dryly. "I can just imagine this inn in the heyday of its existence. Around these tables were probably seated a noisy, gesticulating lot of peasants, and chickens, enjoying the rights of democracy, wandered in and out. Oh, yes—'twas the simple life, all right, with the emphasis on the simple."

"Ecoutez—ecoutez!" broke in Don suddenly.

"But why should we listen, mon ami?" demanded Dunstan.

"Another sensation, I suppose!" cried Chase.

"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.

"We have been taking possession of the Cheval Noir," exclaimed Dunstan. "Will you not enter and keep us company for a while?"

"Quite willingly," assented the poilu, stepping inside.

The three reseated themselves at the table, while the soldier, pulling out a chair at the end, made himself comfortable.

"I suppose you are off duty, and, as a relaxation from your dangerous work, have been taking a stroll about the country?" he said, politely.

"Quite correct, Monsieur," replied Don.

Then the newcomer, in a suave and polished manner, began to make many inquiries concerning their particular section of the Red Cross, as well as about their personal experiences at the front. Finally Don, in his turn, put a question to the poilu.

"Monsieur," he asked, "have you ever seen the Château de Morancourt?"

"Who in this locality has not?" responded the other, laconically.

"We had a very curious experience there to-night," pursued Don.

"Indeed! May I inquire the nature of it?"

"Bien sure, Monsieur."

Thereupon Don began a spirited description of the puzzling event, to all of which the Frenchman, though by no means exhibiting the interest which the boy had expected, listened with respectful attention. At his conclusion the soldier laughed dryly and commented:

"As you say, quite a curious experience—the kind which would have a tendency to jar one's nerves. But what is strange and weird in the darkness and mystery of the night becomes by day the ordinary and the commonplace. How is it, mes Americaines, that you came to visit the château?"

"Because of the mystery," replied Don.

"The mystery?"

"Yes. Haven't you heard that a very valuable collection of paintings and other things completely disappeared from the place, and that so far no one has been able to discover the slightest trace of them?"

"And did you think you might help to solve such a perplexing problem?" exclaimed the soldier, half banteringly. "Ah, les Americaines are quite wonderful! And I might remark, en passant, that you ran a very great risk—a very great risk indeed. It is undoubtedly true that the Germans are keeping a watchful eye on the Château de Morancourt. But you probably will not venture to go there again?"

"Of course we shall," laughed Don.

"And the reason?"

"Possibly we might be able to find some clue after all."

"You weigh curiosity against danger and decide on the former, although knowing that the château may be destroyed at any moment?"

"Yes, Monsieur," said Don.

All the while the aviator's son had been wondering to what regiment this very distinguished-looking soldier of France might belong, but just as he was about to make some diplomatic inquiries the poilu rose to his feet, saying:

"I am glad to have had the opportunity of meeting you. Now I must say good-bye. Perhaps the hazards of war may bring us together again, but if not, allow me to take this occasion of wishing you continued immunity from shot and shell, as well as a safe return to your native country."

And then, after shaking hands with each in turn, he quickly walked outside.

"Quite an odd character!" pronounced Dunstan.

"And a very gentlemanly one," said Don.

"A little too high-toned for me," declared Chase.

The ambulanciers rose in a body, and presently, upon reaching the road, saw the poilu headed in the direction of the château, and, strangely enough, the cat was close at his heels.

"Ha, ha!" laughed Dunstan. "Not very complimentary to us, eh? We terrified the poor cat, while it follows the Frenchman like a creditor. I'd like to know where he's bound."

"To the Château de Morancourt, of course," drawled Chase.

"What makes you think so?"

"Take it from me, that, while he didn't say very much, Don's tale impressed him a whole lot—enough, I'll wager, to make him 'weigh curiosity against danger and decide on the former.'"

"That may be a pretty good guess," agreed Don.

The three idly watched the Frenchman until he had disappeared, and then, refreshed by their rest, began walking at a lively pace along the road.

The outskirts of the ruined village were soon reached and passed.

From the summit of a rather high hill they stopped to gaze upon an extensive panorama of the surrounding country. The object which excited their greatest interest was the upper portion of the wrecked tower of the ancient château, which rose, a somber, grim patch, just above an irregular line of shadowy and mysterious-looking trees.

"How fine it is!" exclaimed Don, enthusiastically.

"The only thing it lacks is a few spectral lights," declared Chase.

"And I have no doubt if we waited here long enough they'd appear," returned Dunstan.

The Americans turned away from the view, which even the growling of the distant guns and the war rockets could not rob of a peaceful grandeur, and continued their march.

Very soon a singularly picturesque and interesting scene appeared before their eyes. On the slopes of the opposite ridges was an immense encampment of soldiers—a little tented city, as it were. Row after row of tents stood out pale and ghost-like in the moonlight, and from innumerable camp-fires hazy columns of smoke floated upward, to lose themselves against the steely-blue tones of the sky. Here and there tethered horses, no doubt belonging to the artillery, could be seen, though but few of the poilus were visible.

"Charming!" exclaimed Dunstan. "Perhaps that is the very place to which our soldier visitor belongs."

"Perhaps," agreed Chase. "But I'm not going to do any more wondering to-night."

"At any rate we have a story to tell that will set all the fellows at the section to wondering," laughed the aviator's son.

Down the incline they went, branching off about a quarter of an hour later into a military highway, though, owing to the clearness of the night, there was little traffic moving in either direction. Now and again, however, they heard the steady, rhythmic tramp of marching feet and encountered small bodies of troops passing along. The moonlight glistened on rifles and accouterments, and its rays were strong enough to disclose dogged, grave expressions on the faces of these poilus, some of whom, perhaps before very long, would take their places on the firing line.

A railway ran by the side of the road, and occasionally miniature locomotives and trains journeyed past, the puffing of the engines blending with numerous other sounds which came over the air.

The ambulanciers did not hurry, and as every sentry stationed along the road brought them to a halt by a demand to see their passes, the hour was quite late when they finally saw the picturesque outlines of the Hotel de la Palette looming up in the distance.

"We've had quite a day of it," quoth Don.

"We've had quite a night of it," said Chase.

"We've had some experiences we shall not forget in a hurry," declared the art student.

Arriving at the section headquarters the three found that during their absence a high-explosive shell had torn a big hole in the eastern wall of the structure, whereupon Dunstan remarked, reflectively:

"Well, there's certainly nothing dull about life in the war zone!"

[CHAPTER X]

THE BIG GUN

Several days passed, during which Don, Dunstan and Chase saw duty at the outpost. For the most part of the time the sector remained comparatively calm, though occasionally the big guns on both sides pounded away in a fashion that suggested the beginning of a real curtain of fire.

Don and the young chap from Maine were now working together on number eight, Dunstan and "Tiny" Mason having been assigned by Chief Wendell to take charge of ambulance number three.

All of the Red Cross drivers mentioned made several trips to the field hospital, but on none of their runs did they encounter any very thrilling adventures.

Don Hale had not forgotten the artillery officer's invitation to visit the battery; so when the day on which he was to be en repos rolled around he declared his intention of putting the plan into immediate execution.

"Not for me," drawled Chase. "I'm going to read all day and forget there is such a thing as war."

Dunstan, on the other hand, was decidedly enthusiastic.

"Sure, I'm going," he declared.

"Bully for you!" cried Don. "Hooray! We'll have a dandy time."

Immediately after breakfast the two left the Hotel de la Palette, and in due course reached that section of the country where the battery was located. By the aid of information which a sentry kindly gave them the boys discovered Lieutenant D'Arraing conversing with the crew of one of the big guns located behind a group of trees. His eyes brightened at their approach.

"Ah, bon jour, mes Americaines!" he cried, in cordial accents. "Your visit is very well timed indeed—unless you have already run into so much danger that you do not care to risk any more."

"Try us, and see," said Don, smilingly.

"I will take you at your word. One of our airplane observers brought in a report to the effect that he has very strong suspicions that the Germans have erected a wireless station on a certain building behind their trenches."

"Aha!" exclaimed Dunstan, interestedly.

"Of course we cannot permit any such liberty; so the captain and I shall shortly be off to an observation post, in order to spot the bursts of smoke from the shells when the work of putting that wireless plant out of commission is begun."

Don Hale's eyes sparkled. Hopefully and with much anticipation he awaited the lieutenant's next words, and they were exactly what he wanted to hear.

"I should be pleased to have you come along."

"Well, we'll be mighty glad to do so," cried the boy, delightedly.

"No mistake about that," chimed in Dunstan.

"Good! But I must warn you in advance that there is a very grave element of risk."

"That doesn't scare us a bit," laughed Don.

"It is settled, then. Here, let me show you." Lieutenant D'Arraing unrolled a military map and spread it out on the top of a row of bushes. Then calling the boys' attention to a numbered pencil mark on its surface, he added: "This is where our observer locates the wireless station of the Boches."

Don and Dunstan studied the map with great interest.

"How extraordinarily detailed it is!" cried the former.

"Yes; the position of every clump of trees and even of single ones is indicated—in fact such small things as hedges have not been omitted. Our game is very exacting, you know."

To the ordinary eye the map was quite confusing, for besides the multiplicity of typographical details there were numerous red and blue lines branching off from various points.

"What do they mean?" queried Don.

"The location of certain batteries and their range," explained the artillery officer. "Now, kindly step this way."

About fifty feet further on the three came to a halt before a rounded elevation, on a mound of earth.

"Entrez, Messieurs," said Lieutenant D'Arraing, with a smile—he pointed to a dark, gloomy-looking opening at the base,—"and I'll introduce you to one of our special favorites—'Le Grand Pere.' Presently it will be paying some attention to the wireless over yonder."

"Goodness gracious!—there's concealment for you!" cried Don.

Cautiously the boy stepped down into the entrance, in a moment or two finding himself face to face with the breech of a big gun. The weapon, its muzzle projecting through another opening at the opposite end of the mound, was well protected by a heavily-timbered roof covered with earth. Even in the underground retreat the polished surfaces of the steel monster caught and reflected every stray beam of light.

"'Le Grand Pere' has done his full share of service," declared the French officer, when all were standing inside.

Then, to show how easily the piece of mechanism could be operated, he raised, lowered and moved the muzzle from side to side by means of little wheels.

"It seems almost like perfection," commented the aviator's son, as he carefully examined the "elements," as the figures on the gun's-sighting apparatus are called. "And yet I suppose experts are continually trying to make improvements."

"Yes; science is insatiable in its efforts to advance," said Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Here—look through this!"

He swung back the big breech-block, and Don, sighting through the long tube, saw a circular spot of brilliant daylight at the other end.

"You will notice that the inside is rifled," continued the lieutenant. "On the driving band of the projectiles are spiral grooves, which of course exactly coincide with those in the gun, and that is what gives the shell its rotation. Scientific calculations of the density of the atmosphere and pressure of the wind, and the use of trigonometry to find the range all combine to enable the gunners to fire with marvelous accuracy."

"What is your chief work—trying to put the opposing batteries out of commission?" queried Dunstan.

"By no means; though we should not miss an opportunity to do so. The main objective of the artillery, however, is to support the troops, to prepare the way for infantry charges and to prevent the enemy from bringing up supplies and reserves—in fact, to harass them in every way possible."

"This seems to be really a war of big guns," commented Don.

"Quite so!" assented the military man. He laughed. "Now, this is a two-story house. Below, and to one side, is our rest and recreation room. You may take a look if you wish."

The ambulanciers did wish, and a few moments later had clambered down a ladder to a subterranean room many feet underground. Straw was plentifully strewn about the floor, and several of the gun crew were lounging about at their ease.

"A chap doesn't have to bother much about shells in here," said Don.

"No," replied the lieutenant. "As a foundation the roof has iron girders and cement beams. Over these is about a foot of closely-packed earth. Next in order come a number of heavy logs, then earth again. And as a finishing touch there is a second series of logs and a layer of cement, topped off with another generous supply of good old terra firma."

"My, how safe I feel!" chirped Don.

"The life of an artilleryman is not so dangerous," admitted the officer; "for the moment things begin to get a bit too hot they can desert the gun pits, and in so doing are not obliged to cross any open spaces. One dive into the tunnel, and the cannoneers are safe! Passageways connect the various underground chambers, and telephones are installed wherever necessary."

Just as the concluding words fell from the officer's lips a terrific booming report made both of the ambulanciers give a perceptible start, though the gun crew about them gave no indication of even having beard it.

"A few high-explosives being dispatched without our compliments!" remarked the lieutenant. "Come, mes Americaines, and you can see one of the big guns in action."

One after another the three climbed nimbly up the ladder, and on emerging into the open saw a cloud of smoke hovering in the still air some twenty-five yards away.

"No wonder it made such an awful crack!" cried Don.

"Better stuff some of this in your ears," counseled Lieutenant D'Arraing. He presented to each a wad of raw cotton. "The concussions are pretty severe on ear-drums."

The Red Cross men thanked him and promptly followed his advice. In a moment they came to a hedge, behind which a gun crew, with remarkable precision and swiftness, was loading an enormous howitzer mounted on tractor-wheels.

"It takes seven cannoneers and a corporal to fire this gun," explained Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Each has a particular duty to perform, and when the projectile is ready for its long journey, the corporal gives the signal to fire, the lanyard is pulled, and what happens you will presently witness with your own eyes. Give her all the room you can, boys."

Don and Dunstan, highly interested, stepped back. It was a very wonderful thing, the ambulanciers thought, to be actual eye-witnesses of such a proceeding—indeed it made Don Hale almost feel as if he himself was an actual participant in the greatest war history has ever known. How many times had he heard the terrifying screech and scream of approaching shells and the frightful concussion which brought them to an end! And here was a projectile about to be launched off into space toward some point which none of them could see, but where, undoubtedly, were human beings who might be destroyed by its withering blast.

These reflections were abruptly terminated; for the corporal was speaking at the 'phone.

"Yes; ready to fire," he said.

Then came an instant's pause.

"Now!" thought Don, instinctively placing his hands to his ears.

"Fire!" commanded the corporal.

"FIRE!" COMMANDED THE CORPORAL.

The lanyard was pulled.

Instantly there followed a spurt of gleaming flame and a nerve-racking report which made the earth tremble; and as the great gun recoiled from the shock a thick cloud of smoke rolled upward and spread out among the trees.

Although prepared for the concussion, Don Hale felt almost as though his ear-drums had been burst by its terrific force.

But he almost forgot that an instant later, in his eagerness to watch the crew at work, for the breech of the gun was open ready for another projectile.

About sixteen seconds after the first shot had been fired another left the muzzle, and then came a series, the terrific crashes and reverberations following one another so fast that Don Hale found the strain almost too severe to stand. He gave a sigh of relief when, after fourteen high-explosive shells had been hurled into the enemy's line, the red bursts of flame and clouds of smoke abruptly ceased, and the destroying monster, after its last recoil, sank back motionless into place.

"That means the demolition of a portion of a German front-line trench," exclaimed Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Ah! another weapon is taking up the refrain."

Somewhere in the forest, not so very far away, the boom of a second big gun was heard; and this kept steadily firing until fifteen more shells had been sent toward the east, then a third went into action.

"Whew! It would take some time for a chap to get used to all that awful racket," gasped Don.

"Will my head ever stop aching!" murmured Dunstan.

"Pretty hard, I know, when one is not accustomed to it," put in Lieutenant D'Arraing, with a smile. "Now we shall have to look. When a man hits another he is apt to get a blow in return."

"Well, we are in a good place," said Don, his eye on the mouth of an opening leading to an abri.

The ambulanciers waited expectantly, and, sure enough, but a few moments had elapsed when shells were crashing both to the right and left of the battery, but fortunately far enough away to make a dash into the cave unnecessary.

When the flurry was over the lieutenant remarked:

"Come along. I'll introduce you to Captain Langlois."

As the three followed a narrow lane through the woods the reports of various guns of the battery echoed and reëchoed among the hills, the staccato rattle and bang of the lighter field-pieces blending in with the deep and solemn booming of the bigger guns.

They soon reached a battery of the former type, also so well concealed from view by various devices that they might easily have passed by without noting its presence.

"The eighteen pounders!" shouted Lieutenant D'Arraing in Don's ear. "Each shell contains three hundred bullets. They can be fired with very great rapidity."

The ambulancier did not need to be told this—the evidence was right before him. Terrific crash after terrific crash, following a lurid sheet of flame and a spurt of smoke, was coming from each field-piece; and after every shot the empty shells were discharged and fresh projectiles slipped into place.

"Did you ever see such wicked and vindictive-looking little chaps!" exclaimed Don, yelling with all his might, so as to make himself heard above the din. "They seem to be lashing out in perfect fury. Somewhere somebody is being deluged with a hail of lead."

"And every crash we hear may mean a tragedy some miles off," shouted Dunstan, gravely.

"The horse artillery is very useful," put in the lieutenant, using his hands as a megaphone. "When the poilus 'go over the top' they are the guns which thunder along the roads and fields, to give them support and encouragement. They also help to prepare the way for infantry charges by smashing to pieces the barbed-wire entanglements in front of the trenches."

Conversation under the circumstances was a very difficult matter; so the party hurried away, though wherever they went it seemed impossible to get beyond the roar of the batteries.

In a large spacious dugout they found Captain Langlois, with a couple of other officers, poring over a large map of the sector. He was a middle-aged man whose black hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray. He greeted the Americans pleasantly, though he appeared a little dubious as to the advisability of allowing them to run the risk of a journey to the observation post. A few diplomatic words from Lieutenant D'Arraing, however, soon straightened out matters, and he gave his consent.

"Kindly take seats, Messieurs," he said. "I shall be ready in a few moments."

The dugout, besides being furnished with several chairs and a table, had a number of bunks ranged around the walls. Then, of course, military maps of various kinds and sizes were prominently in evidence on all sides.

While they were waiting for the Captain, Don began to tell Lieutenant D'Arraing about their interesting experience at the Château de Morancourt. The artillery lieutenant listened attentively, from time to time shaking his head in a puzzled fashion.

"Very mystifying, to say the least!" he exclaimed. "However, I've heard some of the boys speak of the soldier you met. I believe he is on an extended leave of absence and for some reason or other which no one seems to understand makes his home at the café and restaurant, with a cat as his sole companion."

"What!—actually living at the Cheval Noir!" cried Don. "And he never said a word about it. How is that for something queer, Dunstan Farrington?"

"It certainly is," admitted the art student. "He was so polite, too. I wonder why he didn't give us an introduction to the cat."

"The poilus around here regard him as an odd sort of a chap," volunteered the artillery officer.

"By George, I'm beginning to scent another mystery!" declared Don. "And I won't be satisfied until——"

"Messieurs, I am ready."

The voice of the captain, breaking in upon Don's words, caused them all to rise to their feet.

Trooping behind the erect form of the veteran military man into the bright glare of out-of-doors, Don Hale reflected, with a little chuckle of delight, that it is not given to many to accompany artillery officers on such an expedition.

[CHAPTER XI]

THE OBSERVATION POST

A little later the members of the party, preceded by a telephone man, were making their way with the utmost caution through a field of wheat. With a soft blue sky filled with fleecy clouds overhead, the waving grain close about them, and the pleasant scent which growing vegetation exhales, their situation suggested anything but warfare. Undismayed by the grumblings of the great guns and the whistling of the shells which soared overhead, larks flew unconcernedly about, and frequently their chatter or song was wafted over the balmy air.

Here and there ugly shell-holes were encountered, and very often the operator, fearing that the wires which led to the observation post might have been damaged, stopped to examine them. The situation was decidedly thrilling, and the aviator's son did not mind admitting, to himself at least, that his nerves were at a very keen tension.

To the east, hazy in the distance, a German observation balloon hovered in the air, swinging lazily in the gentle currents. It wasn't altogether pleasant to think that the observers in the basket might have their powerful glasses leveled on that particular spot in the wheat field across which they were now passing. And very likely, too, there were men posted at various observation stations who were keeping a watchful eye open for just the sort of thing they were now engaged upon.

It was quite natural, therefore, that whenever the boy heard the awesome scream of a shell a little louder than usual his heart beat faster.

Going this way and that and concealing their movements in every possible manner, the five reached a deep trench, which zig-zagged across a field absolutely bare of vegetation. One by one they leaped into it, and, in single file, continued steadily along.

"Don't forget to keep your heads down," cautioned Lieutenant D'Arraing.

"Never fear!" said Don. "We won't do anything to bring about an inglorious end to the expedition."

Presently the trench led upward over the slope of a hill, and when the top was reached turned sharply to the left. A few yards further on, around a bend, the boys discovered the observation post, roofed over with corrugated iron. Right beside it was a dugout.

"Here we are," spoke up Lieutenant D'Arraing. "And if I am not mistaken our being here won't be a very good thing for the Boches."

Not far away, close to the parapet of the trench, stood a row of bushes. With a wave of his hand, indicating these, the captain exclaimed:

"I think it will be safe for you, boys, to take a look from there."

While the operator by the entrance to the dugout was adjusting the telephone to the wire Don and Dunstan, both provided with field-glasses, cautiously moved forward, with the lieutenant by their side.

"Now we are ready for the fireworks!" muttered Don Hale, grimly.

He carefully pushed aside the bushes and saw stretching before him a steep slope, with a wide valley at the bottom and ranges of hills beyond, the summits cutting clearly against masses of white clouds. The wooded hills and bluish distance seen here and there between breaks made a very charming picture in the bright, clear sunlight; but it was not upon these features that the eyes of the aviator's son were intently fixed, for even with the unaided eye he could make out the lines of trenches, both French and German, running in a curiously irregular fashion across the near and far slopes. To the south a few faint grayish spots scattered here and there, inside the French lines, indicated what remained of a little hamlet. In the entire valley Don could not discover a single tree which had escaped the ravages of warfare.

"Do you see a spur on the hillside directly opposite?" asked Lieutenant D'Arraing, who, standing by the side of Don, was peering through a pair of field-glasses.

"Yes—yes," said Don eagerly.

"Take a look at it through your binocular."

"TAKE A LOOK AT IT."

The aviator's son placed the instrument to his eyes. The spur which the artillery officer had indicated instantly became strong and clear.

"Now swing your glass to the left," commanded the lieutenant, "and stop when you come to a little whitish patch almost hidden by trees."

"I have it," exclaimed Don.

"I think you will find in a few moments that our battery has it, too," commented the other, dryly. "You might not suspect it, but that insignificant little light spot is a part of the side of a building, and on that building has been erected——"

"The wireless plant," supplemented Don, eagerly.

By this time the telephone operator, with the receivers attached to his ears, was ready to transmit the captain's orders to the battery, while the senior officer in the observation post had his glasses leveled on the distance.

"How strange it is," reflected Don Hale, "that people some three miles away are moving unconcernedly about a certain building, totally unaware of the fact that within a moment or two they will be exposed to the most terrible danger!"

He lowered his binocular, for the captain was speaking.

"First piece," he commanded.

"First piece," echoed the telephone operator, speaking into the transmitter.

"Direction: wireless station; range five thousand yards."

The message was flashed over the wire, and a few moments later word came that the battery was in readiness.

"Fire!" commanded the captain.

That was an extraordinarily interesting moment to Don Hale.

The operator had scarcely ceased speaking when, from the hill to the rear, came the report of one of the howitzers, and as the projectile, describing a parabola, passed overhead, making the same screeching, screaming sound with which he had become so familiar, Don once more directed the glasses upon the wireless station.

Breathlessly, he waited.

"Ah-h-h-h!"

A long-drawn-out exclamation came from his lips.

A cloud of black smoke suddenly shot up in the distance, completely shutting from view the object upon which he had his eyes so intently fixed. A few seconds later came a faint, dull boom.

What had happened?

Don could not tell. But, with fascinated attention, the boy watched the swirling black mass rolling along the surface of the ground and spreading slowly upward and outward, until it suggested the rounded form of a huge tree.

"Confound it!—wasted!" growled the captain.

"Too short!" murmured the lieutenant.

"Plus fifty yards; augment by thirty minutes," called out the captain.

As the man at the telephone transmitted the order the lieutenant explained to the interested ambulanciers just what the captain's words meant.

"Plus means to increase the range and less to shorten it," he said; "augment tells the cannoneer that he must aim further to the right and 'diminish' means further to the left. The sighting apparatus of the gun is, of course, accurately graduated."

Another roar, and a second projectile was on its way.

Again an inky column, with lashing, tossing edges, spurted above the tree tops. And the aviator's son could instantly see that another shell had been wasted; for the bit of wall now gleamed brightly against a background of smoke.

The captain, lowering his glass, gave voluble expression to his annoyance and disgust; then, swinging around toward the telephonist, he commanded:

"The same elements, less thirty. Fire!"

"Same elements, less thirty," repeated the operator. "Fire!"

Boom!

The confining hills flung the thunderous echoes in all directions. The same whirr and scream overhead again—and for a third time Don Hale saw where the projectile had landed.

Still the wireless station had evidently not been touched.

"H'm—h'm!" murmured Captain Langlois. "Pas mal—pas mal; not bad—not bad! Same elements, less fifteen. Fire!"

And a few moments later the light spot flashed from view, completely obliterated by another enormous and sinister-looking cloud of smoke.

For a second time the intensely interested Don Hale was in doubt as to the result, yet in another moment he realized that the artillerymen had been successful; for the captain, with a grunt indicative of satisfaction, faced Lieutenant D'Arraing, declaring:

"Enfin, Monsieur le Lieutenant, c'est fait!"

"At last it is done!" murmured Don, translating the captain's words.

"And I guess he's about right," exclaimed Dunstan.

Sure enough—when the slowly-disappearing smoke had lifted the ambulanciers saw that the portion of the building they had looked upon before was no longer in sight, and both could very readily imagine that where it had stood there was nothing but unsightly piles of wreckage and a huge shell-hole.

"As I expected!" remarked Captain Langlois. "If that really was a wireless plant it won't be sending out any more electric waves."

"I should say not," said Don, a little soberly.

"Inscribe the elements," commanded the captain.

"Inscribe the elements," repeated the operator, speaking to the man at the battery end of the wire.

Don could not help reflecting upon the methodical and businesslike manner of the whole proceeding. There was nothing to indicate that either of the officers held any feeling of hate or vindictiveness toward the foe; their attitude was rather that of men who having had important work to do are glad of its successful accomplishment.

"Do you know what 'inscribe the elements' means?" asked the lieutenant, breaking in upon the boy's thoughts.

"I think I do, Monsieur le Lieutenant," replied Don. "The officer in command of the battery is to write on a chart the exact elements in order that they may have the information in case they should ever be required to fire at the same point again."

"Precisely so," said the other, with a smile.

The ambulanciers still kept their eyes upon the German trenches, as shells were now occasionally exploding here and there. After a short time, due to the steady increase in the bombardment, dark and light puffs of smoke, according to the character of the shell, were rising continually into view. Vaguely suggestive of the surf, ever tumbling in fleecy foam upon the beach, were these appearing and disappearing smoke clouds softened by atmosphere distance.

"The first part of our work is completed; now for the second!" remarked Lieutenant D'Arraing. "Far to the right, where you see that little leafless tree sticking up, we intend to get the range of the Boche trenches."

"But the French and German lines look mighty close right there," declared Don. "Isn't there danger of a shell falling short and perhaps striking too near our front?"

"Yes; but we don't expect such a thing to happen," put in the captain, smilingly.

"I'm mighty glad I don't have to give directions for the firing," said Dunstan.

"I think the French can be mighty glad of that, too," came from Don.

He chuckled faintly.

The captain was now giving the range to the telephone operator, who, in his turn, transmitted the order.

"Fire!" commanded the artillery officer.

Just as interestedly as before the ambulanciers waited to see the result of the shot.

The whistle of the projectile had been lost to the ear when a geyser of smoke rose considerably beyond and to the left of the tree.

"That won't do at all," grumbled Captain Langlois.

He and the lieutenant held a consultation, studying the map, and having come to a decision the gunners to the rear were presently informed of the necessary readjustments in the range.

A second shot went astray; so did a third. But each was just a little nearer the mark. The fourth struck to the right, but so close that the smoke floated in front of the solitary tree and partially obscured its form.

"As you see, mes Americaines, it is only a question of time when we get what we wish," commented Lieutenant D'Arraing.

"I reckon the Germans learned that long ago," said Don.

The fifth shot proved the artillery officer's confidence to be based upon good reasons; for when the smoke of the shell-burst began to clear away the powerful field-glasses revealed the fact that a considerable portion of a snake-like line of sand-bags running across the slope had completely disappeared.

"Which means, of course, a very disastrous occurrence—from their point of view!" exclaimed Dunstan, with a long breath.

"I don't like to think about it," declared Don.

The ambulanciers, not wishing to trespass too much upon the kindness and courtesy of the French officers, soon decided that it was time for them to leave. Accordingly, they expressed their warm thanks and appreciation of the opportunity which had been afforded them.

Very politely, both the captain and lieutenant declared that it had given them pleasure to extend the privilege.

"Now, cher amis, what are you going to do?" asked the lieutenant.

"I wonder if we couldn't visit the front-line trenches?" cried Don, with a sudden idea.

"I see no reason why you cannot. Red Cross men as a rule are accorded far more privileges than newspaper correspondents." Taking out a small pad from his pocket, Lieutenant D'Arraing scribbled a few lines, then, handing the sheet of paper to the aviator's son, added: "If you should happen to be stopped en route this will probably smooth the way."

Bidding good-bye to the obliging artillerymen, Don and Dunstan set out, headed toward a distant point where scarcely any firing was taking place. They very soon reached a boyau, or communication trench, which, curving and twisting in all manner of ways, led toward the firing-line, and into this they turned. Soldiers were going and coming, and many times the Americans received a pleasant word of greeting. Along that section of the front, as well as elsewhere, an astonishing number of transverse ditches had been dug, starting from about a mile behind the lines—indeed a veritable maze of passageways, so intricate and bewildering as to make it sometimes difficult to find one's way, cut across the earth, never running for many meters in the same direction. They were constructed in this manner so that the fragments of a shell exploding in the trench could travel only a very short distance, thus giving security to the poilus who occupied the adjoining sections.

Constant work, especially during rainy weather, was necessary in order to keep the ditches in repair. Supporting timbers often had to be added. Then, every now and again, enemy shells partially wrecked or destroyed considerable portions; and for the work of reconstruction or digging new trenches the services of soldiers housed in dugouts along the second or third lines were often called into requisition.

At many places all the labor was done under cover of darkness. Here the trenches were within easy view of the German observers, and had they discovered any signs of activity it would, of course, have meant a deluge of shells.

As the ambulanciers continued, very often hearing the ominous hum of bullets ripping past close overhead, they felt profoundly thankful for the protection the two feet of wall above their heads afforded.

At length, when Don and Dunstan arrived at the second line, or support trenches, an officer stepped from one of the crowded passageways, to command them peremptorily to halt. It is very likely, too, that he would just as peremptorily have ordered the two back but for Lieutenant D'Arraing's note.

"All right, mes Americaines," he said, after glancing over it. "You may proceed. The firing-line is only about one hundred yards from here. I presume you have never been so near the enemy before. Let me hope it is not your intention to pay them a visit."

"We couldn't be persuaded to," replied Don, with a smile.

"About how far apart are the trenches?" asked Dunstan, casually.

"In some places right along here only about twenty meters," was the startling answer.

"Great Cæsar! Only about sixty-five feet!" murmured Don.

The thought of being in such close proximity to the Germans thrilled and awed the aviator's son.

As the boys, after nodding a good-bye to the officer, tramped along the "duck walk," or slatted wooden flooring of the trench, they rather marveled at the seeming indifference of the silent soldiers whom they here and there encountered lounging idly about. None of them seemed to be paying the slightest attention to the projectiles. Turning into one of the front-line trenches, they found the blue-uniformed soldiers of France on the alert. Many of them were standing on a narrow little platform about a foot from the bottom of the excavation known as the "firing step." Some gazed earnestly through trench periscopes; others had their rifles resting across sand-bags or through openings in the breastworks. Still others held hand-grenades, ready to throw on the instant, while laid out within easy reach were rows of these deadly weapons.

The ambulanciers, slowly following the ramifications of the trench, discovered dugouts all along the rear wall, or parados, as it is called. These excavations were, of course, located to one side of the trenches and immediately below.

After traveling for some distance Don and Dunstan came upon another roofed-over observation post in which a young soldier was stationed. Beside him stood a mitrailleuse, its polished muzzle pointing straight ahead.

A curious uncanny silence hovered over the trench; no one was speaking; no one seemed to be paying any attention to the appearance of the Americans in their midst—all were playing the game of waiting with the utmost alertness. For that was the line which was guarding France from the invader; and probably graven in the heart of every soldier were the words made famous at Verdun:

"Ils ne passeront pas"—"They shall not pass."

"Sixty-five feet—sixty-five feet!" murmured Don, over and over again.

It scarcely seemed possible that only such a short distance beyond the parapet of the trench there were other grimly silent men standing side by side and perhaps having as their battle cry the slogan:

"On to Paris!"

"Isn't it wonderful to think, Dunstan, that we are really on the firing line!" said Don. "My, wouldn't I give a lot to look through one of these periscopes!"

Although the words were spoken almost in a whisper a soldier using one of the instruments overheard him.

"You may, mon garçon," he said, in an equally cautious tone.

"Merci, merci!—thank you!—thank you!" said Don.

Eagerly he placed his eye to the periscope.

What a thrill shot through the boy as the secrets of "No Man's Land" were revealed to him! Right in front of the trench stretched a maze of barbed wire entanglements, but every growing thing had been blasted, withered and shot to pieces. The trees that remained standing were gaunt, bare poles, and the ground all about looked as if some terrible convulsion of nature had upheaved and overturned it. Scarcely any of the forms bore a semblance to their original shape. Only a few yards away he could see the rim of a huge shell-crater, into the yawning depths of which a portion of the barbed wire had disappeared. Less than a hundred feet beyond stretched a yellow, muddy line of sand-bags, and right in front of these, extending out for some distance, were stakes driven into the ground and strung with innumerable wires.

"And not a sign of life!" murmured Don. "It just looks as if nothing ever did exist or could exist along this awful stretch of 'No Man's Land.'"

Dunstan now took his turn at the periscope, and presently having satisfied their curiosity the two thanked the obliging soldier and moved on.

During all this time the sharp cracking of rifles was continuous. Sometimes single bullets snapped over the top of the trench—sometimes a regular fusillade; then, at longer intervals, came the rapid-fire, vicious reports of a machine gun in action. Now and again a poilu sent a shot across the barren stretch of ground and a thin wisp of bluish smoke from the muzzle of his rifle floated lazily upward.