Part 25 (1/2)

But John minded neither darkness, cold nor rain. Sensitive and quiet there was some quality in him that always responded to the call of high adventure. His mind was never keener, never more alert, and all his strength of body had returned. Wharton and Carstairs rode on either side of him, and he felt already as if they had been friends of years, knitted to him by a thousand dangers shared.

He looked back once at the intrenched camp, but the descent and curve of the road already hid it in the darkness. He saw nothing but the black outline of the hills, and low clouds floating across the whole horizon.

Ahead was a blank. He was in one of the most thickly populated regions of the world, crowded with cities, but in the darkness and storm it looked like a wilderness.

Neither of his comrades spoke for a long time. He stole a look at his watch, and saw that it was three o'clock in the morning. They crossed two small rivers, foaming like torrents, and at the bridges reined into a walk, lest the hoof-beats be heard too far. But they did not meet any human being. Save for the road and the bridges the aspect of a wilderness was complete. John knew that numerous villages lay near, but in such a world war the people would put out their lights and keep close in their houses.

They turned after a while into a smaller road, leading more toward the north.

”The Uhlans may be in our rear,” said Carstairs. ”They seem to be everywhere, and we don't want to be cut off just at the beginning of our ride.”

”Rein in,” said Wharton. ”I hear cavalry pa.s.sing on the road we've just left.”

”Speak of Uhlans, and they appear,” whispered John.

They were Uhlans, no doubt. John recognized the helmets, but the men were riding back toward the armies. He and his two comrades kept their horses in the shadow of the bushes, and were in dread lest some movement of their animals betray them, but the droning of the rain was the only sound made. The Uhlans, about forty in number, rode on and the darkness swallowed them up.

”Since they've gone about their business we'd better go about ours,”

said Wharton.

”Those are the first wise words I've heard you speak in a half hour,”

said Carstairs.

”It's the first time I've spoken at all in a half hour,” said Wharton.

”Which way do we go now?” asked John.

”Over a hill and far away,” replied Carstairs. ”To be more explicit we're coming to the hill now, and about daylight we'll reach a little village, where I think we'd better get food and news. You'll like the country, John, when it stops raining and the sunlight comes. Oh, it's a fair land, this land of France.”

”I've seen enough of it to know that,” said John. ”Lead on, and I'll be glad to reach the next village. A wind has set up, and this rain cuts cruelly.”

Carstairs rode in front, and for more than an hour they breasted the storm almost in silence. They climbed the hill, pa.s.sed down the other side, crossed numerous brooks, and then saw reluctant daylight appearing through the rain.

John with the new caution that he had learned looked up. But the clouds were so heavy that he saw nothing there, not a dirigible, not a Taube, nor any form of aeroplane. Traveling, even on the business of an army, was still better on land.

”There's our village,” said Wharton, pointing to a pleasant valley in which tiled roofs and the spire of a church showed.

”And there we'll be in fifteen minutes,” said Carstairs. ”I'm full of enthusiasm for the mission on which we ride as you two are also of course, but it will fairly overflow after I have a good warm breakfast.”

Despite the earliness of the hour peasants were up and they watched with curiosity the three hors.e.m.e.n who approached. But enough of the uniform of the strangers showed, despite their cloaks, to indicate that they belonged to the French army, and they were welcome. An old man with a scythe, pointed toward an inn, and the three, increasing their speed, rode straight for it.

”I hope they'll have good coffee,” said John.

”And fine bread,” said Carstairs.

”And choice bacon,” said Wharton.

”And plenty of eggs to go with the bacon,” said John.

It was but a little village, forty or fifty houses, set among the hills, but in times of peace many people must have gone that way, because it had one of the best road inns that John had ever entered. They were early but the landlord soon had the flames going in a wide fire-place, before which the three stood, warming themselves and drying their clothes. And the heavy aromas arising promised that the coffee, bacon and all the rest would be everything they wished.