foe.

At a little distance, the atmosphere was rent into tumultuous waves,
making their legs tremble, their ears hum, and their necks feel as
though they had just been struck. They both thought that the Germans
had begun to return the fire, but it was the French who were shooting.
A feathery stream of vapor came up out of the woods a dozen yards away,
dissolving instantly. One of the largest pieces, hidden in the nearby
thicket, had just been discharged. The captains continued their
explanations without stopping their journey. It was necessary to pass
directly in front of the spitting monster, in spite of the violence of
its reports, so as not to venture out into the open woods near the watch
tower. They were expecting from one second to another now, the response
from their neighbors across the way. The guide accompanying Don Marcelo
congratulated him on the fearlessness with which he was enduring the
cannonading.

"My friend is well acquainted with it," remarked the senator proudly.
"He was in the battle of the Marne."

The two soldiers evidently thought this very strange, considering
Desnoyers' advanced age. To what section had he belonged? In what
capacity had he served? . . .

"Merely as a victim," was the modest reply.

An officer came running toward them from the tower side, across the
cleared space. He waved his kepi several times that they might see him
better. Lacour trembled for him. The enemy might descry him; he was
simply making a target of himself by cutting across that open space in
order to reach them the sooner. . . . And he trembled still more as he
came nearer. . . . It was Rene!

His hands returned with some astonishment the strong, muscular grasp.
He noticed that the outlines of his son's face were more pronounced, and
darkened with the tan of camp life. An air of resolution, of confidence
in his own powers, appeared to emanate from his person. Six months of
intense life had transformed him. He was the same but broader-chested
and more stalwart. The gentle and sweet features of his mother were lost
under the virile mask. . . . Lacour recognized with pride that he now
resembled himself.

After greetings had been exchanged, Rene paid more attention to Don
Marcelo than to his father, because he reminded him of Chichi. He
inquired after her, wishing to know all the details of her life, in
spite of their ardent and constant correspondence.

The senator, meanwhile, still under the influence of