An hour after Mrs. Gordon received news that Bob was wounded she had turned over her little flock of orphans to a fellow-worker’s charge and was on her way to Cantigny. Her companion had almost more work of her own than she could manage, in spite of her cheerful willingness to accept the added responsibility. Mrs. Gordon felt conscience-stricken at imposing the task upon her, but nothing at that moment could keep her from her son, if she must walk every step of the way to reach him. The telegram was scarcely a reassuring one. It said, “Wounded, degree undetermined,” and it had taken twenty-four hours to come the short distance.

At the moment that she set out, however, fortune favored her. A big motor-lorry, loaded with stores, was crawling along the village street, and a Q.M. officer, to whom she had already appealed for transportation, crossed the street at sight of her, saying:

“Here’s your chance, Mrs. Gordon. I’m so glad we can manage. This lorry is going to Cantigny and will be faster traveling than the railroad. I can’t offer you anything but a seat with the driver.”

Mrs. Gordon thanked him from the depths of her heart in a few hurried words, as he stopped the lorry and helped her to a place beside the soldier at the wheel. “Make as good time as you can, Adams,” he said. “No short cuts, though. Keep well out of range.”

It was only fifteen miles to Cantigny directly northeast, but the necessary dÉtours made the real distance nearer twenty-five. The road was full of holes and cut up into ruts by the heavy traffic to and from the front. On every side the ruin and desolation of blackened shell-torn fields and woodland overpowered the beauty of the springtime, still struggling to show itself in nooks and corners that had escaped the cannon. The soldier at Mrs. Gordon’s side, a lanky, pleasant-faced New Englander, withdrew his eyes from the road occasionally to look at his passenger with pity and a kind of troubled helplessness in his glance.

Mrs. Gordon had begun preparing for her journey immediately after reading the telegram. She had not yielded to a moment’s weakness or inaction, but had gone methodically through the details of turning over her charges and getting herself ready. It was a hot, sultry morning, and in her preoccupation she did not realize how hard she worked in the hour before leaving. Now, seated in the lorry, with two hours at least of waiting before her, her courage seemed all at once to give way, and the dreadful suspense she must endure became unbearable. Her vivid imagination saw Bob seriously wounded, perhaps dying, and wondering why she did not come. The sight tormented her so that she sank her face into her hands, welcoming the hard jolting of the heavy vehicle as at least a momentary distraction from her suffering. Her husband had been given back to her, and could she hope that Bob would be spared too? Then, remembering Lucy, she unreasonably hoped again. Surely Lucy’s captivity was enough to bear, and nothing further would be asked of her just now.

“I got a little cold water here, Ma’am,” said the soldier, breaking the sound of the laboring motor with an embarrassed cough. “This dust is sure the limit.”

Mrs. Gordon looked up at him and read the sympathy in his eyes. He held out to her a full canteen, and she took it gratefully, for the dust-clouds had dried her throat in the first half hour of travel. The dust stuck to her face and hands, too, and powdered her clothing, but she hardly noticed it. She unscrewed the canteen and poured a little of the water into her mouth. It was cool and refreshing and, as she swallowed it, she tried hard to get back a little courage and calmness. She had by nature plenty of both and, in a moment, handing back the canteen to the soldier with a word of thanks, she clasped her hands in her lap and looked about her. She could not tell how far they had come, for the landscape was much the same, except that a church tower, with its belfry shot away, rose now from the woody distance.

“When do you think we shall get to Cantigny?” she asked longingly.

“Well,” was the thoughtful answer, “sometimes I make it in two hours, but that ain’t often. I’ll do the best I can, Ma’am. We’ll be there by noon, sure. It’s not but ten now.” He glanced at the pale face beside him, and at the delicate hands clasped so tightly together and added diffidently, “Don’t feel so bad, Ma’am. The Lieutenant is a strong young feller. He’ll come out right enough.”

“Do you know him?” asked Mrs. Gordon, surprised.

“Sure I do. I took over this bus full of stuff for the aero field only last week. Lieutenant Gordon checked off my list, and when he got through he nodded to me and says, ‘Good work, Adams. You really brought everything you were supposed to. How did it happen?’ I had to laugh at that, Ma’am, because the truth was I did forget a bundle of wire, and the Sergeant called me back for it.”

Bob’s mother tried to smile at the soldier’s story, though the remembrance of Bob’s health and cheerfulness was small comfort now. But she had controlled herself, dreading to become ill and useless at the end of her journey if she yielded longer to her fears. She straightened up resolutely against the hard seat and in a moment answered the man’s kindly encouragement by saying, “Oh, I have good hope that he is not seriously wounded. What part of the United States are you from, Adams? Where is your home?”

It was hard to interest herself in the account the Yankee willingly poured forth, but nevertheless she managed it. In return, the time passed more quickly for her, and her nerves grew steadier.

It was about a quarter past twelve when at last they entered Cantigny. It seemed a whole day to Mrs. Gordon that she had sat enveloped in the dust of that endless road, but on the whole the journey had been a quick one. She turned to the soldier with brief thanks and farewell, as they drew up at the steps of the house made into a hospital. An officer appeared in the doorway and Mrs. Gordon, summoning all her reserves of courage, in case she should have to hear the worst, asked hurriedly:

“Lieutenant Gordon, Captain? How is he? I am his mother.”

She never afterward forgot the smile with which the surgeon promptly answered, “You may stop worrying right now, Mrs. Gordon. Your son had a bullet through his shoulder muscle; but what’s that to a strong young man?”

Not until that moment did Mrs. Gordon realize the dread she had endured. Now that the fear was lifted from her heart, she leaned weakly against the doorway, tears blinding her eyes, and hardly knew that the surgeon had taken her arm and was urging her to follow him. But the next minute she was herself again, strengthened by her longing to see with her own eyes that Bob was safe. The surgeon led her into a good-sized room made into a ward, which could accommodate about twenty wounded officers.

He had no need to point Bob out to his mother. In a second she was beside him. He was leaning against his pillows with one arm and shoulder closely bandaged, but his face was not pale nor his bright smile changed as he cried out at sight of her:

“Mother! I knew you’d come! Oh, I’m afraid you’ve been dreadfully anxious.”

Mrs. Gordon could hardly speak, but her eyes told her that Bob was safe and the touch of his cool, strong fingers swept her last fears away. Near by, on a cot half hidden by a screen, lay a young man tossing about and muttering to himself. His face was flushed and a wide bandage was wrapped about his head, from which the brown hair had been cut away. Mrs. Gordon turned back to Bob with unspeakable thankfulness in her heart.

“I knew you’d be worried,” he said, with a frown of anger at sight of his mother’s pale face. “I was in such a hurry to get off the telegram, for fear you would hear the news some other way, that I bungled things. The obstinate old sergeant here copied the message right off the card they pinned on me at the dressing-station, before they examined my wound. I told him to say ‘slightly wounded,’ but nothing could make him change it.”

“Never mind, Bob dear. I know now that you are all right,” smiled Mrs. Gordon, sinking down on the little chair beside the cot with a sigh of peaceful weariness. Her face and hands were grimy with dust, but she did not think yet of her discomfort. “Tell me all about it, Bob—how it happened,” she begged. “They let you talk, don’t they?”

“Yes, indeed. They let me do anything but shrug my shoulders, and I don’t particularly want to do that.” Happy in his mother’s presence and in the knowledge that she was freed from anxiety about him, Bob began telling the story of the fight in which he was wounded. A quarter of an hour passed quickly while Mrs. Gordon listened with fascinated interest, too proud of Bob’s skill and daring to wish him more prudent, but sadly fearful for the future in the midst of her satisfaction. His account was cut short by the sound of a footstep at the door of the ward. Bob paused to look up, then forgot his story as he called out with a welcoming smile, “Come on in, Harding! Here she is at last.”

While he spoke a young Infantry Captain with a bandaged hand crossed the room, holding out his sound left hand to Mrs. Gordon. A frank, merry smile, that no hardships had yet robbed him of, lighted up his face at the pleasure of the meeting.

“Mrs. Gordon!” he exclaimed, “I am glad to see you.”

“Dick! You here too?” cried Mrs. Gordon, starting to her feet.

He took her hand and, looking earnestly into her tired face, the smile faded from his lips and he said remorsefully, “If I’d only known in time I’d have gone to you myself with the news of Bob’s wound, and saved you all this worry. I’m convalescent and could have got off.”

Mrs. Gordon patted the young officer’s shoulder, looking at him with friendly affection. “I know you would have, Dick. Thank you for thinking of it. But tell me what you’re doing here. You’ve been wounded again?” Her eyes shrank a little from the sight of his bandaged hand, for Dick Harding’s first wound had been a serious affair, and well remembered by the Gordons, for it was coincident with Bob’s capture and imprisonment.

He held up his hand to show her, saying reassuringly, “It’s nothing this time—just a bullet wound. Fingers are all right. Sit down and tell me about yourself.” A shadow stole over his face and his eyes saddened as he added, “Don’t talk about Lucy if you don’t feel like it, but I’ve thought of her so much. I can’t think of anything else.”

Mrs. Gordon’s eyes filled with sudden tears at his words. His grief and sympathy were so sincere and real that the little he said meant much to her. He had suffered with them during Lucy’s captivity, and she and Bob had no secrets from him.

“I have nothing to tell you, dear Dick,” she said unsteadily. “The news Bob brought is the last we have.” As she spoke her thoughts went back a year to Governor’s Island, to Lucy’s and this young officer’s pleasant friendship. How long it seemed since the July morning that Lucy had waked her to tell her that Dick’s regiment had gone.

“I can’t help hoping for the best,” Captain Harding was saying when she listened to him again. “It seems so wonderful that the Colonel has recovered and that Lucy has found that precious old Elizabeth to watch over her. With such good luck I keep looking for more, and, do you know, I’m almost sure it will come.”

It was faint enough consolation, but somehow it cheered Mrs. Gordon a little. She smiled at the young officer, thanking him in her heart for his determined optimism. At the same moment a nurse came up to offer her a cup of tea and a chance to wash her dusty face and hands. Beginning to realize her travel-stained appearance she gladly accepted, leaving Captain Harding at Bob’s side for a few minutes.

“Dick,” said Bob thoughtfully, after his mother had left the two alone, “I’m going to tell her my scheme. It’s only fair.”

“Your plan to bring Lucy out?” asked Captain Harding, ruffling his hair with a nervous hand, while the troubled anxious look returned to his face. “It seems—almost impossible. No, I won’t be a wet-blanket,” he added quickly, as Bob frowned at him. “I don’t blame you for attempting the impossible. It’s beyond endurance to leave her there, and we don’t seem much nearer to recapturing the town.”

“It’s a question of getting some of the information we need or of waiting for reinforcements for a mass attack along this front. I can’t wait any longer without trying something. Mother is worrying herself sick. If I landed once behind ChÂteau-Plessis why can’t I do it again, and even recross the German lines in safety, with help from you fellows on this side?”

“May I join you, comrades?” asked Captain Jourdin’s voice from a few steps away. The Frenchman had paused on his way across the ward for Bob’s invitation, which was not slow in coming.

“You’re just the person we wish to see!” Bob exclaimed, reaching out a hand to his friend in warm welcome. “It was bully of you to come over. No flights this morning? There’s another chair for you, Dick,” he added to Captain Harding, who had yielded his own seat to the aviator.

“Yes, but I came down again early. Things are quiet along the line since last night. What is your discussion, if I may know?”

“It’s about trying to bring Lucy out of ChÂteau-Plessis. Now don’t shake your head and say it’s a difficult undertaking. I know that well enough, but I’m going to try it.”

“Then it is not my advice you wish, but my assistance,” remarked the Frenchman. “Tell me your plan and I promise you all the help in my power. I will lead a guarding squadron to keep off enemy fire—is that what you wish?”

“Just exactly,” said Bob with enthusiasm. “I don’t see why it can’t be done. Anyway, once over their lines, I’ll know if I can bring her safely back. Lucy could crouch down in the observer’s seat so as to be almost entirely sheltered.”

“And you, Harding?” asked Captain Jourdin. “You will direct your anti-aircraft battery? That will be ticklish work at night, but you can keep the Boches wary and unwilling to fly. Once they are up you cannot do much.”

“I can scare them off a part of the line—enough for Bob to make a safe crossing. Our trenches are very near theirs at that point. I’ll need search-lights, of course. With luck we might even find a night when they did not fly. They seem decidedly short of scouts around ChÂteau-Plessis. They have massed them at Argenton.”

“But it seems to me you are two wounded men. How are you to accomplish all this?” inquired Captain Jourdin, in the puzzled tone of a man who thought the adventure more gallant than feasible. Before his mind’s eye came some of the many airmen—Allied and enemy—he had seen fall to death. Bob’s chance of safety was no more than theirs, and Lucy must helplessly share his danger.

“I’ll be up in a week—the surgeon said so,” Bob insisted. “And Harding is all right now. He expects they will let him out in three days.”

Captain Jourdin rose quickly at sight of Mrs. Gordon, who was just reËntering the ward. “Your mother has come, Gordon!” he said, with keen surprise and pleasure. “She knows of your plan—we may talk of it?”

“No, but I will tell her right now,” said Bob. “I certainly can’t try it without her consent.”

Jourdin had met Bob’s mother in Governor’s Island days, and now, in the midst of common fears and perils, they seemed rather friends than acquaintances. Mrs. Gordon greeted him warmly as she joined the little group, looking herself again with the dust quite got rid of.

“What were you saying, Bob?” she asked, smiling at her son, from whom she could hardly take her eyes.

Bob told his plan without delay, and Mrs. Gordon, paling a little, listened in silence until he had finished. She no longer felt as she would have a few months ago at hearing such a proposal. She had endured so much, and had seen such terrific obstacles overcome by skill and daring, that she hesitated to call any feat impossible. It was dreadful to her to think of Lucy’s share in such a desperate venture, but no more dreadful than what she was bearing every day in the knowledge of her captivity.

“What can I say?” she asked, her voice shaking a little. “It seems a mad attempt, but if there is a good chance——” She turned to the Frenchman, fancying that his willingness to help Bob outran his confidence of success. “Would you have proposed this yourself, Captain Jourdin?” she said earnestly. “You have had more experience than Bob—does it seem too foolhardy to you?”

Jourdin considered a moment, his fine, candid face grave and thoughtful. “We have first of all to make known our coming to Mademoiselle,” he said at last. “Successful in that I shall be eager to go on. If the firing is heavy we must come back without her, that is all.”

Captain Harding stirred in his chair, frowning as he inquired doubtfully, “How about the old man? I can’t see him allowing his squadron to go off like that on private business.”

Major Kitteredge, thus referred to, did seem a stumbling-block, and for a moment Bob could find no reply. “Oh, well, he can only refuse,” he said finally. “I’ll ask him. He’s coming to see me to-morrow.”

“Anyway, Mrs. Gordon, it is a very indefinite plan yet,” said Captain Harding, thinking Bob’s mother had endured enough anxiety for one day. “Nothing can be settled until Bob is well, and you know how many things may happen before then. ChÂteau-Plessis may even be retaken.”

Here the conversation ended, for so many uncertainties entered into the project it was hard to talk it over. Mrs. Gordon had only that day to remain with Bob, and the other two officers rose to leave her alone with him.

Early on the following day Mrs. Gordon returned to her duty, and, soon afterward, Bob had his conversation with Major Kitteredge.

His superior officer had been very kind about paying him short visits, and the old friendship between them would ordinarily have made Bob speak boldly. But this time caution urged him to be wary. He had narrowly escaped disaster the night he returned from ChÂteau-Plessis, and he doubted much that his chief would sanction a second visit there, or would believe in its possible success. He broached the subject nearest his heart by idly remarking:

“Funny, isn’t it, Major, how different the discipline of the Aviation Corps is from that of the other arms of the Service. I mean, every man is more or less on his own—he can carry out his plan, once he is in the air, without consulting anybody.”

“You mean he can obey orders in whatever way he thinks best,” Major Kitteredge corrected. “He is always following out a plan from Headquarters, though it may be a vague one. He can’t, for instance, sail off and drop bombs on Frankfort, if he has been told to harass the enemy troops at Montdidier—though both are praiseworthy objects.”

Bob was silent a moment. “Yes, of course,” he assented. “But if an aviator asked permission to make a certain flight over enemy territory his superior would probably consent, wouldn’t he?”

“For instance?” asked Major Kitteredge, looking keenly at him.

“Well, I know a fellow who is anxious to cross the Boche lines near here for reasons of his own. A risky flight, as it happens, but worth it to him. I wonder if he can get leave.”

“Reasons of his own? You mean he chooses to take great risks on a flight of no military value? No, his commander ought to refuse him leave,” said Major Kitteredge frankly.

“But if he—took the flight, and—let the cat out of the bag later?” Bob persisted.

The elder officer still kept his eyes on his companion. It was fairly plain that he guessed who the fellow was of whom Bob spoke. Watching his chief’s face, Bob oddly remembered an incident of long ago in the West, at Fort Leavenworth, when he had watched that same face with equal anxiety. Bob had coaxed the driver of the Q.M. ambulance which took the post children to school to let him drive the four frisky mules. Neither he nor the soldier had counted on passing Lieutenant Kitteredge on the lonely road just outside the reservation. How Bob had hoped that morning that the young officer would not raise his eyes to the driver’s seat and notice this serious breach of orders. Bob had already been punished once for it. It seemed impossible that the Lieutenant should not see him, and he scorned to hand over the reins at the last second, even if it could have been done in safety. The officer slightly turned his head and cast a glance in their direction, then he looked straight up the road again, as the ambulance rolled swiftly by. Bob’s boyish heart had warmed with gratitude for that friendly blindness. He pulled up the mules, handed the reins back to the driver without a word, and climbed over to his own place.

It was his eager study of Major Kitteredge’s face now that brought this little scene so vividly back. Would he be generous once more, in this new favor that Bob sought, and ignore what he could not approve?

“So you want to go into ChÂteau-Plessis again, and bring Lucy out?” was the surprising answer he received after a long moment. To Bob’s “How did you guess it?” look Major Kitteredge added, smiling, “You’re a great conspirator, Bob.” Then, grown serious again, he said slowly, “It’s a hard question to answer. I hesitate as much on Lucy’s account as for other reasons. She must share all the danger.”

“But if Mother consents——” Bob put in eagerly.

“At any rate, you can do nothing until you are fit for duty,” declared Major Kitteredge. “You know how useless it is to plan a week ahead. Wait until you are well, and then we’ll talk about it.”

Bob was willing to change the subject for a while. He stretched his injured shoulder carefully, to try its strength. “Another week and I’ll be back on duty, Major. It’s tough, waiting all this time. I’m so afraid we’ll commence a push and I shan’t be there, after hoping so long for it.”

Bob believed that a week would see him back at work, but the surgeon thought differently, and it was ten days after Mrs. Gordon’s departure when he returned to duty. His desire to get on with the plan for Lucy’s rescue had only increased with the delay, and now he was determined to make at least a beginning. Major Kitteredge could not object to his communicating with his sister and arranging some signal which should announce their coming when the attempt was made. It was a beautiful morning, with a cloud-flecked sky ideal for his flight over ChÂteau-Plessis. The firing along the line was light and scattered. He could surely hang over the meadows, in and out of the veiling clouds, with a fair chance of discovering Elizabeth on her daily round. It was still early enough to meet her on her morning trip across the fields.

He had a bundle of papers, containing Lloyd-George’s latest speech, beside him on the farmhouse floor. One copy he had spread against a book on his knee, and was carefully pricking it full of holes.

“That you, Jourdin?” he called out, hearing a footfall outside the door.

“Yes,” was the answer, as the Frenchman entered the room with his quick, light step.

“Good. Come and help me with this message, will you? I want to say as much as possible in a few words, so Elizabeth can read it quickly. See what you think of this.”

He held the sheet of paper to the light, and was about to decipher it when Jourdin, laying a hand upon his shoulder, interrupted him.

“I am very sorry, Bob,” he said. “We cannot think of this now. I came to tell you that we must go up at once. The Boches are out in force over Montdidier, and half our little squadron has engaged them. They need help quickly.”

Before he finished speaking Bob had sprung to his feet. The German airplanes were always thick around Montdidier. He knew what straits the Americans must be in if they had encountered a full squadron of their heavy-armed Fokkers.

“I’ll be with you in two minutes,” he said. “I’ve been feeling ever since I got up that something was going to happen to-day, but I couldn’t tell what. Blessings on my shoulder for getting well just in time.”