When the air battle shifted south again toward Cantigny Lucy and her father were left in a state of dreadful uncertainty. Neither on that day nor the next did they learn the result of the fight, except for the vague rumors that went constantly from mouth to mouth among the friends of the Allies. These felt some hope that the Germans had met defeat, because of the complete silence their conquerors kept on the subject. German Victories were usually loudly proclaimed before them. But there was talk of heavy French and American losses, and this depressing news was all that Elizabeth could learn for Lucy.

Unable longer to bear the continual sight of the German officers and men in authority at the hospital, Lucy sought out Michelle the afternoon of the day after the battle.

“Michelle, I can’t stand it any longer,” she told her friend, in the privacy of the de la Tours’ little house. Her calmness and patience had all at once fallen from her. Michelle looked at her flushed cheeks and trouble-haunted eyes, and exclaimed, frightened at the change in her:

“But, Lucy—what can you do? No good comes from fear and anger. I know that well. We can do nothing but wait and hope.”

“I can’t wait and I can’t hope any longer! I’m not like you, Michelle—brave all the time. My courage comes in spurts, and when it goes I am a coward. The one thing I cannot stand is waiting!”

Michelle was silent, but her expressive face said as plainly as words that Lucy might have to bear longer than a month what she herself had borne four years.

“Yes, I know what you think, Michelle,” cried Lucy, reading her mind. “It’s you who should be desperate, not I. But it was watching the fight yesterday that finished me. Before that I still had a little courage left.”

“You mean—your brother?” Michelle asked softly.

“Yes, not knowing anything—if he is safe, or who won the battle. Like Father, I’m getting so I can’t sleep or eat or do anything but wonder why on earth the Americans haven’t tried to push on.”

“I know—I know,” Michelle agreed with instant sympathy. “But they will, Lucy. It seems bright to us now, who remember the black days before America was with us.”

“But, Michelle, Major Greyson and the others who can get near the German lines think the Allies are going to attack. You know how the firing has recommenced toward Montdidier, the last two days? Last night a regiment marched through ChÂteau-Plessis on its way south. I’m sure the Germans expect something.”

“I hope they will wait for it at the wrong place,” said Michelle, sighing, “but they are very hard to surprise.”

“I know Captain Beattie’s plan of the batteries isn’t everything,” Lucy went on earnestly, “but he and Bob are so sure that Argenton is the key to an advance along this line. If the Allies can take Argenton they think ChÂteau-Plessis and the towns north toward Amiens will fall too. I don’t know about Montdidier.”

“Yes, so thinks Armand as well,” said Michelle, a trifle wearily. “But we cannot reach the other side to tell them what we know.”

Lucy fell into gloomy silence. Presently, with an effort at self-control, she raised her hands to smooth her loosened hair, and tried to recover some of her calmness. “You have enough to stand, without bearing my tantrums,” she said, looking at Michelle remorsefully. “I’ll behave now. Shall we go to the hospital? The convalescents are waiting for their work.”

“Yes,” Michelle nodded, “Clemence goes to the Commissariat now. I can stay at the hospital with you until she returns.”

Neither of the two felt much like talking as they crossed the town a few minutes later. Their spirits were heavily clouded, and the occasional sighs and ejaculations of the patient old Frenchwoman trudging beside them found an echo in their own hearts. On entering the hospital Lucy noticed an unusual stir and activity about the wards. That some of the faces turned toward her were sadder than an hour before did not at first strike her, because she was sad herself. But the next moment she met Miss Pearse, and, seeing the young nurse’s troubled face, asked anxiously:

“Is anything wrong, Miss Pearse? Anything more, I mean?”

“Only that they are sending some of our convalescents to prison camps to-day. The order came just after you left. Oh, Lucy, I hated so to tell them!” Her voice shook and tears started to her eyes, but she swallowed hastily to overcome her weakness. “I must go and help them get off. Come into the hall and try to cheer them up a bit.”

“Easier said than done!” Lucy thought wretchedly. She wanted to do nothing so much as to cry, but she had begun to learn the uselessness of that. Michelle caught her hand with a hard squeeze of angry understanding as they went on into the convalescents’ hall, where the men to be sent away were assembled.

One of the first that Lucy saw was the little Westerner, Tyler, whose cheerful spirit and jolly little clay images had done so much for the others in the past few days. She longed overwhelmingly to give all she had of help and sympathy to her unfortunate countrymen, for the ten or twelve soldiers, French and American, gathered there were the picture of despondency. The strength which might have upheld them was wanting, for they were scarcely recovered or able to be about. Their cheeks were pale and their bodies thin from suffering and fever. All the courage they could summon was only enough to give their set faces a look of grim endurance.

Of them all Tyler seemed to Lucy the most pitiful. His hopeful cockiness was almost gone, and the strain of getting ready and standing about, after the days spent in bed or in a chair, had nearly exhausted his wiry little frame. Major Greyson went here and there among them, giving what help or advice he could, cast down like them by the knowledge that another hour would see them beyond his power to aid.

Tyler nodded to Lucy with a last attempt at his persistent cheerfulness.

“Well, Miss,” he remarked, in such a sad ghost of his old chaffing tone that Lucy could hardly bear to listen, “I guess it’s a case of ‘Where do we go from here?’ all right, for us. On to Berlin’s the idea, I suppose. Hope the Kaiser don’t take a fancy to adopt me. Say,” he added, with a look of utter misery in his eyes, “who’d ’a’ thought, after twenty-five years I’ve spent in Arizona, that I’d end up in Germany?”

Lucy stammered out words of hope and encouragement which deceived him no more than they did herself. As she went on down the line, repeating the same useless efforts, Michelle ran up behind her and caught her sharply by the arm.

The French girl’s eyes were gleaming and two crimson spots burned in her pale cheeks. “Come with me, Lucy!” she commanded rather than asked. “The hard time will come when they leave ChÂteau-Plessis! There we must be to say farewell, for they go almost at once! I heard speak the German guard this moment.”

Only half understanding, Lucy allowed herself to be led out of the hall into the big ward. In the bustle and confusion no one noticed their departure. They went out by the side door into the garden and from here Michelle led the way across the square and eastward toward the edge of the town.

As they hurried along, half-running through the almost deserted streets, Michelle explained again her purpose.

“They must pass on the road that goes across the meadows, on their way from ChÂteau-Plessis,” she said, breathing fast. “It is there when they say adieu to the town that they will be triste! It is the last French town where they can set foot, for but two miles from here the train will take them into Germany.”

“Oh, Michelle, it’s too dreadful to bear!” cried Lucy, bitterly rebelling once more against the inevitable.

“It is not the first time that I have seen it,” said Michelle, her voice suddenly trembling. “Never before, though, have Americans gone, too.”

As they neared the meadows, making for the road that ran across them, north of the German observation post, the empty streets became filled with a steady line of people, hurrying eastward like themselves. Women, their faces half concealed by shawls, with children running beside them, shared the road with bent old men who found a cautious way among the dÉbris of broken stone. Michelle’s was not the only loyal French heart to foresee the desolation of the prisoners on reaching the outskirts of ChÂteau-Plessis. One and all had learned the news somehow and had come out at any cost for a last farewell.

At the edge of the field where Lucy and Michelle paused among the little crowd, stood old MÈre Breton with a covered basket on the ground at her feet. The bright eyes beneath her white cap were sparkling with defiance, as with hands on her hips she stared across the grass at the German post, where a sentry walked, looking curiously toward the little throng. Lucy went up to her with a faint smile of greeting, guessing at the contents of the basket and thinking how hopeless any kindness was which could not follow the prisoners beyond the German border.

“I have something here,” nodded the Frenchwoman, pointing to her basket in answer to Lucy’s glance. “They will get a taste of it on their way, if I should be beaten for befriending them.”

Before Lucy could reply, Michelle drew her attention by pointing silently down the street they had left behind. The little column of prisoners was coming along it, preceded by two German soldiers. The faded blue and khaki of the French and American uniforms showed beyond the armed gray figures leading the way. The pace had not been slackened for these men just from the hospital, in spite of the hot sun and the difficulty of walking among the broken stone.

As they neared the field some of the men glanced back into the desolate streets of ChÂteau-Plessis. Lucy knew how dear and greatly to be desired the little town must seem. Here they had cherished a never-dying hope of freedom, and here, too, were friendly hands to tend them, and friendly faces to look upon. Ahead lay Germany, where how many of their comrades had gone to misery and death; where at best only wretchedness awaited them.

In a moment they had come out on to the meadow road, and with one accord every voice in the little crowd was raised in greeting and farewell. Kind faces, eyes brimming with tears, and hands out-stretched with trifling presents of fruit and flowers met the prisoners on their way. The children ran to clasp the soldiers’ hands, and MÈre Breton, her basket on her arm, gave out her little store of provisions as fast as her quick fingers could move.

All this took so short a time that the guards at the front and rear of the column had scarcely time to interfere. But now, as the cries on every side grew louder and the crowd closed in almost on the prisoners’ path, one of the rear guards sprang threateningly forward with upraised rifle. Astonishment and fury were written on his face, that these townspeople, so docile and downtrodden, should have dared thus to show their unquenchable love and loyalty. The prisoners passed, and the little crowd, gazing after the retreating column with eyes blurred with tears, hardly noticed the brutal figure advancing upon them. MÈre Breton had emptied her basket and was standing now in the road with one hand shading her wrinkled forehead. She was hoping that a little present had found its way to each man’s hands. Her thoughts were all with the prisoners on their hard way, but the German guard took her preoccupation for defiance. He had charged down upon the people remaining in the road, and, as these scattered, the butt of his heavy rifle was raised directly above MÈre Breton’s head.

Whether he really meant to strike the old woman down, or only to terrify her, Lucy never knew. In common with half a dozen others she sprang to MÈre Breton’s side and dragged her back as the German’s rifle cut through the air. Lucy’s horror almost robbed her of power to think at that moment, but she had to think quickly, nevertheless. Michelle had rushed in front of the old Frenchwoman, in furious defense. She stood facing the guard with hands clenched at her sides, her blazing eyes confronting the man’s angry face, as his rifle struck the earth in its harmless descent. His fingers clutched it as though for another blow and, still seeing MÈre Breton as the intended victim, the enraged girl was actually going to offer battle to the burly man before her. But MÈre Breton had slipped safely among the crowd, and Lucy, with Madame de la Tour’s face before her eyes, seized her friend’s arm and dragged her back with all her young strength. The guard, indulging in more brandishings of his rifle and a burst of abusive words, turned to rejoin his prisoners.

The little group of people were now fast dispersing, their courage shaken and only fear remaining at the thought of possible punishment. Lucy led Michelle quickly across the meadow toward the town. She did not try to speak at first, for Michelle was still deadly pale and shaking with anger. But she struggled to recover her self-control, and in five minutes more had calmed herself enough to say unsteadily:

“I did not think what I did, Lucy. Only to save that poor old woman I would fight the Boche. I could not help it.”

“I know, but think of your mother, Michelle—she comes first,” said Lucy, this time the wiser of the two.

“Yes, you are right,” responded Michelle, sighing. She walked on with downcast eyes, depressed and miserable after her useless outburst of indignation.

Lucy could not find words to express the pity she felt for her. Instead, she changed the subject by saying, “I’m coming to spend the night with you, Michelle. Had you forgotten?”

“No, not at all. I am too glad that you will come to forget,” said Michelle sincerely. She looked up at Lucy as she spoke, the blazing light quenched in her eyes. “What time will you come? Perhaps a little more early?”

“I’m not sure. I—Elizabeth may not be able to go when she promised,” said Lucy, floundering a little.

“But she said she could bring you early to-night—soon after the dark,” Michelle persisted.

“Yes—she said so, but you never know. Don’t expect me very early,” was Lucy’s rather evasive answer. At any other time Michelle would have remarked her friend’s lack of candor, but just now she was too unhappy to be observant.

“I’d better leave you here,” said Lucy, as they approached the middle of the town. “You are near home, and I shall go straight to the hospital. I’m breaking my word to Father and Miss Pearse every minute—though I suppose our being together isn’t quite like running off alone. Anyway, I was so excited I never thought.”

“Yes, poor Maman would be sadly anxious if she knew,” Michelle agreed soberly. “Good-bye then, mon amie. I will wait for you to-night.”

Lucy reËntered the hospital with slow and heavy steps, a quarter of an hour later. She had grown deeply thankful that her father’s convalescence was slow and uncertain. Suppose he had been one of those to whom she had just said good-bye? But he was gaining strength daily. Could the time be deferred much longer when he would be sent away? As she pondered these things Major Greyson, who had known her well in the old days, glanced at her, startled by the change in her face. Her hazel eyes had become sombre and watchful, her lips were pressed together, and her cheeks at that moment had lost their healthy color. The surgeon looked after her frowning and troubled. He was thin and worn himself, but he did not think of that.

Lucy was crossing the convalescents’ hall, now so sparsely occupied, toward the nurses’ dining-room, when a voice called eagerly, “FrÄulein! FrÄulein!”

Rebelling at the sound of the hateful German tongue, she would have gone on unheeding, but a German doctor was right in her path, and she dared not risk his ill-will. She turned toward the voice and saw Paul Schwartz leaning from his chair with a bright smile on his face. Half Lucy’s anger left her at sight of him. She could not cherish it against this simple peasant with the mild eyes and childish flaxen hair.

“What is it, Paul?” she asked, going up to him.

“I am discharged!” he cried, his voice trembling with joy and his blue eyes shining. “To-morrow I start for home—for the Schwarzwald! I will be lame,” he added, his smile fading a little, “but I can get about, and it is much to be at home again.”

Lucy had not the heart to say less than, “Oh, that’s fine, Paul. I’m so glad. You will see your wife then, and the little girl?”

“Yes, yes, all! And I have my pension, too—quite a sum.”

“I will come and say good-bye before you go,” Lucy promised, stumbling with the German words, as pity and anger struggled together in her heart. Paul was going back to his peaceful home, thankful to get out of the war. But her father and brother and countrymen were but just entering it. A long, hard fight was ahead of them.

In a minute, however, her natural good sense began to overcome the brooding dread that was tormenting her. “It may not happen,” she told herself, trying to be hopeful again. “Anyhow, I won’t be any good, this way, for what I have to do.” And at thought of one task that lay before her she felt the need of calmness and courage as never before. She nodded to Paul, and went on with a quicker step into the nurses’ dining-room.

That evening, a little after eight o’clock, Lucy drew near to Michelle’s house, and at the garden gate Elizabeth turned to leave her. The German woman had snatched this time to bring Lucy across the town, but her work was by no means done and she was returning at once to the hospital. Lucy bade her good-bye with strange reluctance. She was about to deceive her faithful friend, and she hated the necessity for doing so. But Elizabeth could not spare her any more time to-night, and Lucy well knew she could never win her old nurse’s consent to her project.

When Elizabeth had turned her back Lucy went a few steps into the garden and waited behind the shelter of a bush. She must deceive Michelle, too, for on Madame de la Tour’s account she did not want her company, glad as she would otherwise have been of it. But, frightened or not, her increasing horror at the German captivity now far outweighed her timidity at venturing alone to the prison. For it was Captain Beattie she was determined to see again, and without another night’s delay.

After a moment she went back to the gate and looked cautiously down the street. Elizabeth had disappeared. It was clear moonlight and the deserted street was sharply outlined in light and shadow. There was little chance of moving unobserved in the moon’s path, but by contrast with its soft radiance the shadows looked black and deep along the walls. Lucy left the garden and made her way as quickly as constant watchfulness would permit along the now familiar streets leading toward the prison. She was in a miserable state of mind, but the fear that hurried her footsteps was not caused by her own solitary errand. It was all for her father at thought of the irrevocable fate hanging over him. Irrevocable unless she could do something to prevent it, for, however feeble her efforts must be, she saw no other help in sight. Remembering the chances she had missed of communicating with the Allied lines she came near to thorough dejection. How differently Bob would have managed things in her place! She could not know how close to despair her brother was at that moment, and how his cherished plan for her release had died with Jourdin’s death. Since the battle of yesterday Lucy hardly dared think of Bob.

She reached the prison square, and slackening her pace, began creeping along in the shadow of the walls. The prison guard-room was lighted and the door open. As she paused uncertainly, flattening herself against the stones of the house opposite, the old guard came noisily out and, shouldering their guns, marched off across the square. The relief proceeded to make a round of the prison. Finding all secure, both men retired into the guard-room again and shut the door.

Lucy breathed a thankful sigh and moved cautiously on to where a shadow falling on the street gave her a chance to cross unseen. The next moment she was behind the prison and lifting herself up to Captain Beattie’s window.

He was there close by it, as though expecting her, and the warmth of his welcome did something toward cheering her depression.

“You got off safely that night, Lucy?” was his first eager question. “Those prowling soldiers didn’t see you? How that’s worried me!”

“Oh, they didn’t catch a glimpse of me. I’m sorry you’ve been anxious. Here’s all I could bring you, Captain Beattie,” she said smiling. “It’s better than nothing.”

For two days Lucy had saved a part of her bread and potatoes, and these she held out in her handkerchief, close to the bars. The young prisoner’s gratitude made her almost happy for a moment. The prison wall cast a deep shade on the moonlight-flooded courtyard, but in spite of it a little light penetrated the bars and, for the first time since she had visited the prison, Lucy could see the young officer’s face. It was thin and sad, though a brave smile touched his lips now in answer to her searching glance.

“What should I do without you, Lucy?” he asked, giving her hand a warm, friendly grasp, as she clung to the bars.

“Goodness, I don’t do much,” said Lucy, sighing. As she spoke she remembered that time was precious, and her voice grew alert and earnest. “You can’t possibly get out of here—that’s sure, isn’t it?”

The Englishman laughed rather bitterly. “Quite sure. The surest thing I know. Some famous prisoners I’ve read of contrived to saw their bars with a fish-bone or a pair of scissors, but I don’t seem to have the knack of it.”

“Don’t you ever wonder, though, what you’d do if you could manage to get out—how you would escape to our lines?”

“Of course I do! There never was a prisoner, I expect, who didn’t dream of escape. More than that, I have planned it all out—getting across the German lines, I mean. It’s a beastly waste of time, but Heavens, I have to think of something. However, I’ll be out soon enough,” he added grimly. “They’ve kept me here to be questioned by the divisional commander. He came yesterday, and our talk was so dull I dare say I’ll be on my way to Germany within the week.”

“Oh, perhaps not—don’t think of it,” stammered Lucy wretchedly. Then she drew a quick breath. “I wish you’d tell me, anyway, about your plan to cross the lines, Captain Beattie. You must be so tired of thinking here, all alone. I want to talk to you a little while. The guard has just been around, so they won’t come again.”

“You know, I heard what those two fellows said the other night when they stopped in front here. Poor kid, how scared you must have been.”

“I was! You mean what one said about the chÂteau hill being a weak point in their defenses?”

“Yes—and he was right, too. I’ve been all over that part of the town—last month when the Germans were pushed back. I’m so sure of the ground that my plan for breaking through was made for that spot, even before I heard those soldiers talking.”

“How would you go about it? They must have some defenses there.”

“Oh, yes. There’s a trench line running right through the chÂteau park—an old one. But, poorly garrisoned as they are here, they don’t hold it in any force. They simply mount guard on the hill, as that fellow told us. They count on being able to reinforce the trenches long before an infantry column could advance across that pond and marsh.”

“But the big guns—aren’t there any up there?”

“There were last winter, but, from what he said, there are none now. They must plan to rush them from the rear, in case of an attack. It looks like a real shortage of artillery.”

“Well, aren’t you going to tell me your scheme?”

“If you really want to hear it. I’ve spent hours devising it, but I’ll cut the telling short. First, you’ll have to pretend that I’m outside the bars—for getting out is beyond me.”

“All right. You are here where I am.”

“And it’s about ten at night; but no moon, or at least a clouded one. Starlight would be much better. I creep along the streets to the eastern edge of the town—for I don’t dare cross it straight west—until I reach the meadows. These I skirt, gradually getting westward and nearer their lines, until I come out behind the chÂteau hill, the south-western point of the town. This far I’m pretty confident of success. The place is too deserted for me to be discovered, short of villainous ill-luck.”

“Now you’re behind the chÂteau hill,” Lucy prompted.

“Getting up the hill through the wood is not very dangerous—past the stream, you know the place? I’m not likely to meet a soul there, for the guards probably go up by the trenches. Now I’m at the top, with the chÂteau in front of me, also the trench line and the sentries. But we can take it that the trench isn’t held, or they wouldn’t have sentries.

“To right and left stretches the German line. This part is ticklish. Some nights I make it easily enough; others I’m challenged at the second step. I turn left, around the park, avoiding the open lawns, where the artificial lake and the fountains are, and, keeping well under the trees, cross the trenches at an unguarded point. But by the time I’m on the left of the chÂteau the cover ends, and, to avoid coming out on to the grass in full sight of a sentry, I have to climb down the side of the hill—a regular precipice just here, if I remember right, but it can’t be helped. It’s dark, mossy rock—no one from the trenches below could see a moving figure against it—and with care I get down to the foot safely and find myself at the edge of the swamp. The trenches are behind me, on the left of the hill, and they are strongly occupied here. The Allies’ lines are a mile away, beyond the swamp and pond and a stretch of level ground. My back aches at thought of covering it, though my khaki is good protection—nearly earth color in the dark.”

“But the swamp—can you get through that?”

“Oh, it’s not a real bog. You don’t go in above your ankles, but every step is likely to make a squelching sound. This is the place where the chances are I would be seen or heard. I have to walk bent almost double among the long grass and reeds. My only hope is that the big night-birds in the marsh have accustomed the soldiers’ ears to strange noises—for the trenches are only a hundred yards behind me on this side of the hill. Once safely through the marsh, I drop down at the edge of the pond to get my breath and reconnoitre. The pond extends so far that to avoid it would mean a long dÉtour in the open. It’s not wide, though, scarcely two hundred feet. The castle hill is a quarter of a mile behind me. I’m well on my way, if a stray bullet from one side or the other doesn’t find me about this time. If not, I guarantee to slip into that pond without a sound and swim across undiscovered, provided the moon doesn’t shine upon it to show me climbing out on the far bank. Star-shells, too, would be my finish. I can only trust there won’t any fall my way. Once I’ve slipped out of the pond and started crawling forward again, barring bullets—and I have faced a lot and missed them—I’m pretty near success.”

“But when you get to our trenches—won’t they shoot? How will you prove who you are?” Lucy asked with breathless eagerness.

“I’ll call out, and show that I’m alone. I’d convince them, right enough. Wish I had the chance! They won’t shoot without a look at me. Too many of their own men are likely to be out on listening post.”

There was a moment’s silence, then the young officer said quickly, a keen self-reproach in his low voice, “What am I thinking of, keeping you here to listen to all this nonsense! Go back now, Lucy, at once. You’ve been here long enough.”

“All right,” she agreed, after a minute’s preoccupation. She began to speak again, stopped short, and finally stretched her hand through the bars and gave her friend’s a warm, lingering clasp. “Good-bye, Captain Beattie,” she said, and the Englishman fancied her voice shook a little.

“Good-bye, Lucy! Wish better luck for us both. And come soon again, or you’ll find me gone,” he answered, forcing what cheerfulness he could into the cheerless words, his pity for Lucy just then stronger than any for himself.

“Good-bye,” she repeated, as earnestly as before. Then dropping down from the bars she began her cautious progress back around the prison.

“I will get to the de la Tours’ by ten o’clock,” she thought, wondering if Michelle had been long expecting her. Then, all Captain Beattie had said crowding into her mind, she glanced up at the moon with troubled eyes. As though it felt that appealing and reproachful look, its bright face vanished from her sight behind a fleecy little cloud.

Early the next morning, when Lucy returned to the hospital, she met Major Greyson in the ward. The surgeon’s face was so sad and filled with dismay that Lucy stared dumbly at him. He did not wait for her to speak.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, drawing her aside to a window, his usually brave and hopeful voice dull and heavy. “I’ve done everything possible. I pretended to the last moment. But the German doctor himself examined all the patients to-day. He saw that the Colonel had no fever.”

As Lucy, with swiftly mounting fear, struggled to understand these incoherent phrases, Major Greyson reached out and took her hand in his.

“It’s no use, Lucy. I’ve got to tell you. Your father is considered well enough to travel. He will be sent to Germany day after to-morrow.”