must be raging with the bitterness of death to find that he was
only a mortal like other mortals, and that simple French republicans
were defeating the War Lord, his Grand Army and the host of kings,
princes, dukes, barons, high-born, very high-born, and all the other
relics of medievalism. Dipped to the heel and beyond in the fountain of
democracy, John could not keep from feeling a fierce joy as he saw with
his own eyes the Germans fighting in the utmost desperation, not to take
Paris and destroy France, but to save themselves from destruction.

The afternoon, slow and bright, save for the battle, dragged on. Scott
and Fleury kept together. Weber appeared once more and spoke rather
despondently. He believed that the Germans would hold fast, and might
even resume the offensive toward Paris again, but Fleury shook his head.

"Today is like yesterday," he said.

"How can you tell?" asked Weber.

"Because the fire on both flanks is slowly moving eastward, that is, the
Germans there are yielding ground. My ears, trained to note such things,
tell me so. My friend, I am not mistaken."

He spoke gravely, without exultation, but John took fresh hope from his
words. Toward night the fire in their front died somewhat, and after
sunset it sank lower, but they still heard a prodigious volume of firing
on both flanks. John remembered then that they had eaten nothing since
morning, but when some of the prisoners who spoke German requested food
it was served to them.

Night came over what seemed to be a drawn battle at this point, and
after eating his brief supper John saw the automobiles and stretchers
bringing in the wounded. They passed him in thousands and thousands,
hurt in every conceivable manner. At first he could scarcely bear to
look at them, but it was astonishing how soon one hardened to such
sights.

The wounded were being carried to improvised hospitals in the rear, but
so far as John knew the dead were left on the field. The Germans with
their usual thorough system worked rapidly and smoothly, but he noticed
that the fires were but very few. There was but little light in the wood
of Senouart or the hills beyond, and there was little, too, on the
ridges that marked the French position.

John kept near the edges of the space allotted to the prisoners, hoping
that he might again see von Arnheim. He had discovered early that the
Germans were unusually kind to Americans, and the fact that he had been
taken fightin