About half-past nine that night Lucy entered Miss Pearse’s bedroom and left a note on the little dressing-table. Miss Pearse did not come off duty till eleven, so there was time enough, Lucy thought. Then she returned to the hospital and stole into the dining-room. Elizabeth had finished her work there, and against the wall hung the apron the German woman would put on again at daybreak to begin her hard day’s labor. Lucy slipped another note into the pocket and turned back to the door with a heavy sigh. She had not the courage for farewells made without betraying her purpose, and to betray it meant to put an end to her plan. Her father’s answer would be instant prohibition; Elizabeth would certainly tell Colonel Gordon if Lucy confided in her, and even Michelle’s terrified persuasions she could not face just now. The hospital was filled with its usual stream of tireless workers. Lucy made her way unnoticed into the garden and out into the street.

She looked up at the sky with deep gratitude, for the moon was completely hidden behind dull, heavy clouds. A warm wind was blowing, with rain in its wake. It tossed Lucy’s hair about her face, and every gust brought down loose fragments of brick and stone from some crumbling wall near by. She longed for another talk with Captain Beattie, but she knew well enough that the young Englishman would never have told her what he did if he had for a moment guessed her purpose. She was puzzled to discover at that moment that all fear had left her. She did not realize that it was only submerged beneath a far greater fear—the dread of standing at that meadow road and watching her father go by into German captivity.

Her mind was but little excited as she walked quickly along the dark streets toward the west—the road to the supply depot. Her thoughts just then were all with her mother, that mother she had trusted in so entirely for guidance until these last few months, and to whom she could not turn now for help in her necessity. But even this thought of her was some comfort. Lucy felt dimly that her mother, did she know, would understand, in spite of fearing for her safety, that she could not stay helplessly in ChÂteau-Plessis, and leave her father to his fate. “If Captain Beattie’s knowledge can help the Allies, I must try to reach them,” she thought, without any further doubt or hesitation.

At the end of half a mile she came to a narrow street leading south, up a gentle slope. It was the one that she and Michelle had followed when they went to the stream below the chÂteau hill in search of clay for the convalescents. Lucy recognized it by the little church that stood at the corner, its pointed spire, still undamaged, showing faintly against the cloudy sky. She turned to the left up the street and stole cautiously along it. This was the part of town nearest the firing-line, and soldiers were likely to be met with. In the south, toward Montdidier, she could hear the guns faintly booming, but in front of ChÂteau-Plessis all was quiet enough. The street gradually rose higher, becoming a lane that opened out into woodland part way up the chÂteau hill.

It was nearly half a mile from the little church to where the lane ended, and Lucy’s cautious feet took some time to cover it. The moon was still hidden, for the storm-clouds had grown heavier. The wind, too, had increased, and when she came out on to the hill the pine branches were tossing furiously about, with a noise like dashing water. She paused for breath, after her quick climb up the slope, and peered ahead through the trees, and then back toward the town. The scattered houses along the street she had left were in darkness, for no unnecessary lights were permitted after eight o’clock. All around her was darkness, too, through which she could distinguish the black tree-trunks, the outline of the wooded hill in front of her, and the clouds scudding overhead. Her heart had begun to pound with exertion and excitement, and her mind wavered in its calm confidence. But her determination was as strong as ever. If she could not go on cool and fearless, she would do so trembling and afraid, but go on she must.

She drew a long breath and began climbing the hill, through the dense growth of pines. In a few minutes she came to the stream whose course she and Michelle had followed down to the clay bed at the foot of the slope. She could hear the water flowing swiftly over the stones close beside her, and shaping her course by it, she kept near the middle of the hill and before many moments reached the level ground above. Here she stopped, resting her hand on a swaying pine trunk and listening intently. No sound but the wind in the trees came to her ears. Thinking of Captain Beattie’s words, “Some nights I make it easily enough—others, I’m challenged at the second step,” she crept out of the wood to the edge of the wide open lawns behind the chÂteau.

The towers of the beautiful old building rose dimly against the sky about five hundred yards ahead, at the end of a broad avenue of pines. One tower had been destroyed by shell-fire, leaving only a crumbling ruin. Across the lawns she saw the broad, dark line that marked the trenches. Further on, the pine groves closed in again, covering the slopes of the hillside. To the right of the chÂteau Lucy caught sight of the little artificial lake, by the dull gleam reflected on its surface. Near the edge stood a summer-house, with slender marble columns. Her eyes lingered on it, trying to detach a dark shadow from the climbing roses that fell in a shower over the white columns. In a minute the shadow moved and became the figure of a German sentry. He strolled out to the border of the lake and raised his head toward the stormy sky. Lucy glanced quickly around her, suddenly cold in spite of the sultry heat before the storm. She felt surrounded, trapped, before she had even left the cover of the woods. That solitary sentry became a company of men searching for her with keen, merciless eyes. Furious at her own weakness, she looked around once more for reassurance. There were no other guards in sight. Anyway, she must go on. She crept back into the shadow of the pines and began circling the crest of the hill to the left, watching and listening with infinite caution. Of the trenches running across the lawns she had seen nothing but a dark line of sand-bag defenses. If there were men behind them they were invisible. She was following one of the pretty paths that wound through the wooded park of the chÂteau. In another moment she came upon felled pine trunks and heaped-up earth, over which she stumbled. Breathless with terror, she waited tensely for a challenge, but none came. Not a voice was heard, though before her she could now see the trench-line, a deep cut in the ground, with piled-up earth in front of it. She stole up to the very edge and looked down. A fallen pine trunk had been laid across as a foot-bridge. The complete lack of human voices or movement below told her that the trench was deserted.

But no answering hope or confidence sprang up within her. That lazy figure by the lake had not looked as if he had the entire hill to guard. If the trenches were empty the line was watched some other way. In her wary and suspicious advance Lucy put one foot on the slab of pine trunk that served as bridge, testing her foothold and staring across into the shadows. Just as she started forward a twig cracked beneath a heavy foot and a sentry came into view on the other side of the trench. Lucy had flung herself on the ground among the fallen boughs before the German had even time to turn his head. The wind sighing through the branches effectively drowned whatever slight noise she made. The sentry shifted his gun without a glance in her direction and passed up the line among the trees.

For five minutes Lucy lay there motionless, and at the end of that time the sentry returned along his beat. At his reappearance despair almost conquered Lucy’s terror. She knew she dared not venture across that “abandoned” line. In the darkness, on unknown ground, she stood little chance of passing undiscovered. To judge by the length of the soldier’s beat, at least a dozen sentries must be patrolling the woods about the castle. The lawns were easily watched from the summer-houses or from the chÂteau. For one desperate minute retreat suggested itself to Lucy’s mind. But self-reproach and anger mounted swifter than the thought took shape, and she knew that her purpose remained undaunted. All courage aside, she was as afraid to turn back as to go on; to make her way to the town again, confessing failure and facing the certainty of her father’s departure. As that realization swept over her, she crept up to a pine tree, and leaning against its base, searched feverishly for some way to go on.

The chÂteau! That was a part of the line of defense, and to pass through it would be to pass the trenches. However full of unknown perils it might be, she thought she could face them better there than in this gloomy and terrifying wood. But here difficulties again confronted her. Was the chÂteau inhabited? She had seen no lights, but surely the sentries would be likely to take refuge in it from the storm. Could she possibly get through that great building unseen, since not a step of the way would be familiar? But think as she would no other solution came to her. Even in her dark dress she dared not try to cross the open lawns. The wind was bending the pliant pine boughs in every direction, and some of them struck against her as she rose to her feet and started back the way she had come. In a few minutes she paused uncertainly, for she no longer felt the path beneath her feet. Fearful of completely losing her way, she turned directly toward the chÂteau and presently came out at the edge of the lawn not far from the avenue. The chÂteau was approached by a drive winding up the gentler slope on the side of the hill toward the town. This road became the pine-bordered avenue that ran over the lawns, offering Lucy shelter from near where she stood to the terrace at the rear of the building.

A flash of lightning cut through the dark clouds as she reached the avenue. By that flash she saw the road stretching empty before her. She began running, oblivious to prowling sentries, the only sounds in her ears the sigh of the swaying branches on each side and the distant rumbling thunder. In five minutes she stopped, panting, a few yards from the terrace at the back of the chÂteau. Long French windows opened on to it, but their glass had long ago been shattered, and in the wind the neglected shutters were banging to and fro. Lucy stole up the steps of the terrace, and, approaching one of the windows, flattened herself against the wall and glanced back about the lawns and gardens. By the lake the sentry was still pacing. She could see the faint gleam of his bayonet as he moved. But he had not discovered her. No other sentry was in sight, so far as she could pierce the shadows. She turned to the window and peeped cautiously through. Darkness reigned within, and the wind, whistling through the rooms, made the heavy hangings against the walls flap like sails in a storm. With a quick sigh that was something like a gasp at thought of the unknown dangers before her, Lucy stepped through the window, shrinking from the jagged edges of the broken glass that caught at her hands and clothing.

Inside, she stopped for a second, making sure of her direction, then moved on through the room, feeling every step of the way and more than once narrowly avoiding a collision with some piece of furniture in her path. She reached the opposite side and saw an open doorway leading onward. Beyond it was a large hall or drawing-room, for at the far end were windows, and the lightning playing against them showed the vast interior, filled with the dÉbris of broken furniture, but quite deserted. Enormously relieved, Lucy started quickly forward, urged by a rising hope of success. In her impulsive haste she ran full against a stool or small table. Startled, she sprang back, and the object, flung aside by her sudden movement, fell to the floor with a noise that echoed through the building. Almost with the sound a door was thrown open somewhat on her right. As she stood frozen to the spot with horror, a candle shone out of the darkness and a loud, commanding voice shouted, “Wilhelm! Wilhelm!”

Scarcely were the words spoken when Lucy, recovering her power of motion, fled across the room, glancing wildly about her for some way out. The windows in front were raised from the floor, and she dared not try to climb through one and risk showing herself against a glare of lightning. On her left she dimly saw an open doorway. With pounding heart she darted to it, and, arms outstretched before her, passed through the opening, down a corridor, and found herself before an arched entrance lighted by a faint red glow.

The room beyond, into which she ran, mortal fear of what lay behind driving her on, was huge and lofty, with narrow, pointed windows whose leaded panes were imitated in the glass doors of the countless bookcases which lined the walls. The fire which gave light to see burned faintly in a massive marble chimney-place and was mostly fed by some of the priceless books torn from these very shelves. Before the chimney were several pots and kettles, and other evidences that the fire was used by the sentries to cook their food, since an abundance of fuel lay close at hand in the thousands of volumes the library contained. They were strewn all over the polished floor, and Lucy stumbled over them as she stopped in the middle of the room, looking desperately around her for some place of concealment or escape.

There were no hangings on the walls and the bookcases seemed to offer no safe hiding-place. She approached the chimney, with a vague idea of crouching behind its shadowy columns. By the flickering firelight the motto cut into the marble caught her eyes: En avant pour le droit.

But now, hearing no sound of pursuit, her terrified mind regained a little power of thought. She stole over toward the windows on the right, one of which was entirely shattered. Fearful of listening ears she moved with infinite caution, and reaching the window, stood aside from it to peer out on to the terrace and lawns in front of the chÂteau. A clearing had been cut in the trees that crowned the hilltop, to open a view of the valley below. Just now the trees were only dark blotches framing a stormy sky. Lucy drew back after one swift glance. A sentry was walking across the lawn beyond the terrace. Struggling with the confusion that began to take possession of her, she looked toward the windows at the far end of the room. At that moment heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor, with the gruff murmur of conversation between two advancing men. Then the voice from which she had fled, raised more angrily than before against the increasing noise of the wind, shouted:

“Wilhelm! Wilhelm! Sehen sie!”

There were no two ways open. As the Germans entered the library Lucy slipped through the broken window, and dropping on her hands and knees, crawled along the stone terrace, over a broad parapet of sand-bags rising in her way, until she reached the lawn. That voice had been heard beyond the chÂteau walls, for as, shaking with fear, she looked back to where the sentry paced, she saw the man running up the steps of the terrace toward the library windows. Without waiting for more she rose to her feet and ran like a deer to the crest of the hill, where it sloped down to the valley. She was well ahead of the precipitous rocks down which Captain Beattie had planned his descent. She made for the gentler declivity in front, dodging about a big raised platform that was a German gun-emplacement. As she crossed the clearing, which opened like a little amphitheatre in the woody hillside, a marble summer-house set in the centre, big raindrops began to fall. Lightning glared from the heavy storm-clouds and the rumbling thunder was succeeded by a tremendous peal. Then the pine trees swallowed her up, and she began to feel her way among the trunks, which bent and groaned about her in the fierce gusts of wind.

Whether the front of the hill was guarded below the crest Lucy had no idea. Even had she known there were sentries about her she could have done nothing else than press on, panting, in the windy darkness, the growing downpour of rain penetrating the branches and striking on her head and shoulders. Now and again the lightning shone on her path, revealing the rough, wet trunks and writhing green boughs around her, and the thunder, crashing overhead, drowned the incessant noise of the wind and rain. The storm had become the only enemy against which she struggled as, step by step, she fought her way down the slope. At last, when a strong blast of wind showed her she was nearing the open, a flash of lightning disclosed the gleaming wet swamp and the level ground around it at the base of the hill.

Beneath the last pine tree Lucy flung herself on the ground to catch her breath. She was drenched from head to foot. With wet fingers she felt inside her dress to see that Captain Beattie’s precious paper was safely held in its scrap of canvas and protecting handkerchief. Reassured, she pushed her dripping hair from her face and stared out over the swamp. She knew that great obstacles were still before her. But she had burned her bridges. To retreat through the chÂteau was unthinkable.

In a few minutes the rain and wind began to diminish, and the clouds overhead parted, turning from black to gray. The lightning became less frequent and the thunder sank to a sullen muttering. Lucy studied the sky with deep anxiety. She was eager to have the lightning cease, but knowing the uncertainty of summer storms, she dreaded lest the clouds should drift entirely by and the moon appear, while she was still before the enemy’s eyes. There was no time to lose, and she had begun to fear that Wilhelm’s master might put the men in the trenches on guard against the unknown intruder. She sprang up and stepped out on level ground, and into the spongy, yielding earth at the border of the marsh.

She knew that the trenches were close behind on her left, and a shiver ran through her as her foot withdrew from the soaked ground with a loud squelching noise. On a quiet night any sound might have reached her from where the soldiers watched behind their defenses, but in the rumbling thunder and the gusts of wind blowing away the last of the rain she heard no sign of their presence. The reedy grass came above her waist as she stooped forward, feeling her way along the precarious footing, every nerve and muscle on the alert to receive the warning of danger. An occasional backward glance at the chÂteau towers rising above the gloom of the hill was her only guide, for the plain stretched dimly in front until it was lost in obscurity. Suddenly, with a frightened squawk, a big marsh-bird rose with flapping wings from under her very feet. With loud cries at such unexpected disturbance it fluttered over her head, and only settled down once more when she had been reduced to abject terror. Whether the keen ears behind her became suspicious at the bird’s alarm, or whether the quieting of the storm made sounds more clearly audible, Lucy at that moment heard a voice.

It came from the trenches, but what it said or ordered she had no idea. It gave strength and speed to her tired and trembling limbs, so that she fled on across the marsh nearly as fast as though she were on dry and level ground. Her ankles ached unbearably, and her beating heart hammered against her ribs when she stumbled on to a little ridge of grassy ground just beyond the swampy bottom. With stooping shoulders and head bent down she had no chance to see ahead. Now she looked up and saw the dull gleam of water only a few yards in front. With a sigh of utter weariness she dropped to the wet earth and lay motionless.

A bright glow reflected in the waters of the pond made her start up. She thought of lightning, but one glance showed her the graceful, rocket-like form of a star-shell falling across the sky. It came from the Allies’ lines. The French and Americans were on the watch for any surprise attempted under cover of the cloudy darkness. Lucy sank back to earth, a bitter reproach in her heart for this friendly weapon discharged against her. The light sputtered out, and with the return of darkness she sat up and struggled for courage to go on. She drew Captain Beattie’s message from inside her dress and tied the handkerchief around her forehead like a close-fitting bandage. She felt doubtfully of her rubber soled sneakers, and deciding they were too light to impede her progress, crept forward to the edge of the pond.

At that moment a sound which she had heard a second before and wondered at was unmistakably repeated. The Germans in the trenches were replying to the star-shell with a scattering fire. The shots were few and far apart, but Lucy heard one bullet sing over her head, and that was enough. There is a courage that comes with desperation, and it was this which caused her to crawl instantly forward into the lake and strike out across it.

The cool water brought a welcome sense of refreshment and cleared her whirling mind a little. She swam on strongly, trying hard to make no sound and to keep her arms beneath the surface, and searching the sky with frightened eyes, dreading to see another star-shell flaring up. She heard no more shots behind her, and this brought back a little hope. She struggled to keep the stroke even, and not to hurry it, for the pond was at least one hundred feet across, and she was burdened by her clothing. But to swim slowly and calmly was too much for her. She could not resist bursts of speed as, from the darkness behind, her straining ears imagined every sort of approaching peril. When at last she neared the opposite bank, her breath was coming in painful gasps and she was dangerously near exhaustion. With a few more frenzied strokes she managed to get within her depth, and in another moment crawled weakly out on to the grassy field beyond.

She lay there on her back, a prayer of thankfulness on her lips, though, as she untied the handkerchief from about her head, she watched the sky with fresh anxiety. The clouds were rapidly dispersing and a faint silvery gleam announced the moon’s coming. She thought that in another quarter of an hour these level fields would be flooded with moonlight, and she, too far from either line to be closely distinguished, would be a target for both sides. But she had to have breath to move, and for five minutes longer she lay panting before she rose from the ground and began plodding wearily on, her body bent forward and her feet stumbling over the little grassy hummocks in her way. A line of dark objects, coming suddenly into view, gave her a sickening pang of fear. But as she crept up to them they proved to be only the stumps of what had been a row of trees bordering a field. It seemed to Lucy that she had struggled on for long miles through the darkness when all at once the moon shone out in cloudy radiance. With a gasp she stopped short, staring wildly before her. Not three hundred yards in front a tangle of posts and barbed wire extended before the Allies’ trenches.

She was in plain sight, but at that moment even a bullet from her own countrymen seemed better than what she had fled from so long. She raised both arms above her head and walked straight on toward the edge of the barbed wire, behind which showed the sand-bagged parapet of the trenches. Rifle barrels glinted over the top and a helmeted head popped into sight.

“F-friend!” stammered Lucy, her scared little voice sounding strangely out of the night. “Don’t shoot! I’m an American!”

“It’s a woman—it’s a girl!” cried an astonished voice.

A dozen heads were raised above the trench, a murmur of voices filled the air, and the next instant two soldiers had sprung over the top and were running toward her. The first caught her by the arm and drew her swiftly toward the trenches, saying:

“Through this way—here’s a lane in the wire!”

“But where on earth do you come from?” demanded the second, slipping between her and the distant German lines.

“Just follow on now, as quick as you can!” urged her guide.

Lucy hardly heard them. She knew that she was led safely through the wire, and that strong arms lifted her down inside the American lines.

For a minute she was near to fainting, but the triumph filling her heart cleared her brain and overcame her exhaustion. A light flashed in front of her, and some one held a cup of water to her lips as she sat on the fire-step of the trench and leaned panting against the parapet. A dozen soldiers had crowded around her, expressing every degree of pity, wonder and admiration. The next moment the light revealed a sergeant hurrying along the trench, with an officer following.

“Here she is, Lieutenant,” said the sergeant as they stopped at Lucy’s side.

The lantern raised above Lucy’s head illumined her figure, as, disheveled and drenching wet, she sat on the muddy fire-step. The young officer’s astonished face was on a level with hers as he sank down beside her, asking hurriedly:

“You’re an American? What on earth were you doing out there in front of our lines?”

“In front of——?” Lucy repeated faintly. “Why, I came from behind the German lines—I came from ChÂteau-Plessis.”

“From ChÂteau ——” The lieutenant’s words were lost in a cheer that rang out deafeningly between the trench’s narrow walls. Helmets were frantically waved in the air, and a dozen hands were held out for Lucy’s grasp by the eager listeners about her. She felt her face flush hot and her heart bound with happiness. It was true—she had succeeded! It was hard to realize.

“She crossed the German lines!”

“That girl—all alone!”

“Be still—the Lieutenant wants to talk to her.”

The murmur died away as the officer, no less enthusiastic than his men at that moment, inquired once more:

“You got over here from inside the town without being seen? You deserve a war medal! What were you doing in ChÂteau-Plessis?”

“My father is there a prisoner. He’s Colonel Gordon. I had to come,” Lucy answered, still breathless and somewhat incoherent. Then she started forward from where she had leaned wearily against the supporting timbers of the trench, saying earnestly, “I can’t tell you the rest now. Where is the divisional commander? Will you take me to him? I have news for him that mustn’t wait any longer, and I am afraid he is a long way from here.”

“No—General Clinton is at a farm only five miles behind us—between here and Cantigny. He has been inspecting along the line. Of course you may see him,” the lieutenant added, rather puzzled, “but must it be at once? You look used up, and the trip will be pretty uncomfortable after all this rain. The roads are a sea of mud—not to mention a walk through the trenches.”

Mud—discomfort—Lucy almost laughed aloud at his words. She had seen a good deal of both that night, and what were they compared to the anguish of mind she had borne in the past weeks? She could endure any hardships now with this glorious hope flooding her heart.

“I don’t mind how bad it is,” she said quickly. “I only want to see the General as soon as I can.”

The young officer read the clear, eager purpose in her eyes and gave a nod of consent. At his order a soldier led the way with alacrity, lantern in hand, along the trench. Lucy rose and followed, and the lieutenant came behind her, after stopping for a word with the sergeant.

“We have half a mile to walk,” he told Lucy, pointing ahead along the mud and water of the trench bottom.

She nodded, undismayed. The line of men standing behind their rifles at the parapet, of whom many turned to her with looks of astonishment and eager friendliness, were but dim figures that seemed a half-waking dream. “They’re Americans. I’m with Americans,” she repeated to herself, and the joy welling up at the thought made her almost dizzy as she trudged along the wet, slippery path.

It is at such moments that physical discomfort is hardly felt and, weary though she was, Lucy did not suffer greatly during the long hour’s journey. The tramp through the trenches was followed by a ride in the bottom of a motor-truck, along a dark road that the rain had transformed into a bog. The three passengers were flung from side to side as the heavy wheels struggled through the ruts, or careened into the deep gullies. The laboring motor stalled and missed fire, and the moon, hidden again behind a cloud, gave no light now when it was so sorely needed.

At last the truck reached drier ground, and stopped before a lighted house in the middle of a grassy meadow. Mud-splashed and bruised from the terrific jolting, Lucy was helped down, and the young officer took hold of her arm and led her inside the door. In the little hallway he left her to speak with an orderly, who preceded him to an adjoining room. Lucy heard murmurs of conversation and, beyond the doorway, saw a second officer standing, with papers in his hand. She took out the handkerchief from inside her dress, making also a futile effort to smooth her hair, which, drying during the long ride, had begun to curl in a tangled mass about her head. In another moment the young lieutenant who had brought her returned, saying:

“Come right in, the General will see you.”

Lucy followed him into the anteroom, whose farther door the other officer was holding open.

Beyond it a broad-shouldered man with iron-gray hair was seated at a big desk under the electric light. His face was turned toward the door, and as Lucy entered he rose sharply to his feet, saying with quick earnestness, “You are Colonel James Gordon’s daughter? You came from ChÂteau-Plessis?”

He put his hands on Lucy’s shoulders, fixing his eyes on hers.

“Yes, General,” Lucy answered with trembling eagerness. “I am Lucy Gordon. I have been in ChÂteau-Plessis since before the Germans took it. My father is there still.”

“You got through the enemy lines—you crossed over to us alone?” the General insisted, his glance softening with pity and wonder as he surveyed Lucy’s mud-stained and bedraggled figure, and the shining, eager eyes in her tired face.

“Yes, I did; I had to. They are going to send Father into Germany, and I couldn’t stay there and do nothing, when I thought I had a chance to save him.”

“You have courage enough for anything! What can we do, though, poor child—unless they will delay your father’s going for some days longer? But tell me how on earth you got over here!”

“I brought you something that I know will help,” Lucy persisted, and with shaking fingers she unfolded her handkerchief and laid the precious slip of paper in General Clinton’s hands. “A British officer who is a prisoner in ChÂteau-Plessis gave me this. He was captured at Argenton, and that drawing shows what he learned of the defenses.”

“The defenses of Argenton?” As the General spoke he sat down at his desk with the paper quickly spread before him, and the two young officers with one accord sprang to his side.

“The road is the fortified ridge. The soldiers are the batteries. He explained it to me,” said Lucy, breathing fast.

The General wheeled about in his chair and looked at her with a new light in his eyes. “You’ve done us a good turn, my little girl!” he exclaimed, and reaching for Lucy’s hand he took it in a strong clasp. “You are of the sort that will bring victory to America, and I’m proud of you!”

Lucy’s heart was too full for words and her eyes filled up with sudden, smarting tears. The two junior officers, seeing her emotion, checked and cut short the burst of generous praise that rushed to their lips.

Almost at once the General continued, “I must question you in detail before any use can be made of this plan. Also, I must hear how you got out of the town. But first I will let you dry your clothes and rest a little. You have done enough for one night.”

Lucy raised her head, dashing the tears from her eyes. “I can answer any questions now, General Clinton,” she said quickly. “Do you think I have come all this hard way, and almost died of fear, to go and rest before telling you all I can? Don’t think of me, or anything but learning what you want to know.”

Her firm, earnest voice, and the steady light in her eyes carried reassurance and conviction. General Clinton gave a nod of satisfaction, and his voice, as he ordered Lucy to take a seat beside him, told her that her answers would hold a new weight and value in his mind.

“My only fear,” he began, “in trusting to this plan you have brought is that you may have been deceived by some sharp-witted German knave. Who was this officer who gave you the information?”

“Captain Archibald Beattie of the Royal Infantry. He is a prisoner in ChÂteau-Plessis.”

“Wheeler,” said the General, turning to his aide, “where is that British liaison officer who was with us to-day? Could you get hold of him?”

“Yes, sir, he is right in the other farm building,” said the aide, saluting.

“Find one of our machine-gun officers, too,” the General added as the lieutenant turned to leave. “Where did you see this Englishman?” he continued, facing Lucy once more.

“The first time was when a German officer made me interpret for him what Captain Beattie said, because I speak a little German. After he was in the old town prison I used to see him through the bars of his window. He gave me this plan in case I should ever be able to send it to our lines. I missed two chances in succession, so there was no way but to come myself.”

“What chances could you have had?”

“My brother Bob landed in ChÂteau-Plessis once, but that was before I knew about the hidden guns at Argenton. Then a French spy got into the town, but I failed that time, too.”

“Here they are, sir,” said the other lieutenant, going toward the door.

Steps sounded outside and crossed the outer room. The aide reappeared, with two officers behind him. One was a tall, handsome Britisher about thirty years old, whose face was so strangely familiar to Lucy that she stared at him wonderingly as his hand rose to the salute. But the impression passed, for he bowed to her without recognition. Before the General had more than spoken a word of greeting, the second officer entered the room and stood at attention. Then at sight of Lucy he gave a gasp of such surprise as almost caused him to forget the General’s presence.

“Lucy! Lucy Gordon! You are free!” he cried.

The General looked up sharply. “You know her then? And you, Miss Gordon?”

For Lucy had leaped to her feet to hold out both hands to the young officer, her face all lighted up with joyful recognition.

“Oh, yes, General,” she stammered, struggling for words in her happiness at sight of this long-lost friend, “it’s Captain Harding!”

“Well, Captain Harding, I congratulate you on your friend,” said the General with a kindly smile. “This young lady crossed the German lines to bring us this plan of the Argenton defenses. I will ask you two gentlemen to give me your opinion on it.”

Making a respectful effort to hide his astonishment, and to silence his unbounded admiration, Captain Harding bent, together with the British officer, over the little paper on the General’s desk.

“Now, Miss Gordon, please tell us again about that British officer who gave you this plan,” the General commanded.

“He is Captain Archibald Beattie, Royal Infantry, captured at Argenton on May 17th,” Lucy repeated.

“Beattie—Archibald Beattie!” exclaimed the British liaison officer. “I know him, General; he is a prisoner now.”

“Yes, in ChÂteau-Plessis,” Lucy nodded. “He is young—about twenty-one—with light brown hair and blue eyes, and a little scar on his forehead.”

“Just so! He got that scar from a grazing bullet at Ypres. If this plan is from him, sir, it’s trustworthy. Why, that’s his writing at the bottom, ‘Changing the guard’!” The Britisher’s calm face had grown flushed with excitement. “Then the group of men must represent batteries?”

“Yes, so he told this young lady. What part of the ridge would that be, Harding?”

“The west front, sir, where the concealed batteries are. The main front!” Captain Harding exclaimed, overcome with joy. “Oh, sir, we should be able to silence those guns now!”

His hand, behind the General’s back, came down on Lucy’s shoulder with a pressure that would have been painful if its friendly and delightful meaning had not increased her happiness. “Oh, but you’ve done a good piece of work, Captain Lucy! I always knew you had it in you,” he whispered.

“Next week—the attack we had planned——” the General was saying.

Forgetting herself, Lucy interrupted him. “Oh, not next week, General! Right away! My father will be sent into Germany day after to-morrow.”

The General swung around in his chair and looked at her with keen, thoughtful eyes. “I can’t make promises,” he said at last. “But if any one has deserved to have her father saved it is you. And the army cannot afford to lose Colonel Gordon if there’s a chance of reaching him. Tell us what else you know.”

“I can tell you the weakest point in the line before ChÂteau-Plessis. Captain Beattie and I heard two German soldiers talking about it outside his prison window. But he knew it before anyway. It was there that I got through.”

“Wheeler, bring that scale map and put it on the desk,” ordered the General. “Gentlemen, draw up, and Miss Gordon will show us just exactly where she crossed the lines.”

The British officer, rising to obey this invitation, held out his hand to Lucy as he neared the desk. His face had in it something more than a friendly admiration for her brave exploit.

“I want to congratulate you myself, Lucy Gordon,” he said. “I’m your cousin. I’m Janet’s brother, Arthur Leslie.”