te of himself his heavy eyelids drooped, and
although he strove manfully against it, sleep took him. When he awoke he
heard the same deep murmur, like the roll of the sea, and saw the army
still advancing. It was yet night, though fine and clear, and there
before him was the broad, powerful back of the general. Vaugirard was
still using the glasses and John judged that he had not slept at all.
But in his own machine everybody was asleep except the man at the wheel.

The country had grown somewhat hillier, but its characteristics were the
same, fertile, cultivated fields, a small wood here and there, clear
brooks, and church spires shining in the dusk. Both horse and foot
advanced across the fields, but the roads were occupied by the motors,
which John judged were carrying at least twenty thousand men and maybe
forty thousand.

He was not sleepy now, and he watched the vast panorama wheel past. He
knew without looking at his watch that the night was nearly over,
because he could already smell the dawn. The wind was freshening a bit,
and he heard its rustle in the leaves of a wood as they pushed through
it.

Then came a hum and a whir, and a long line of men on motor cycles at
the edge of the road crept up and then passed them. One checked his
speed enough to run by the side of John's car, and the rider, raising
his head a little, gazed intently at the young American. His cap closed
over his face like a hood, but the man knew him.

"Fortune puts us on the same road again, Mr. Scott," he said.

"I don't believe I know you," said John, although there was a familiar
note in the voice.

"And yet you've met me several times, and under exciting conditions. It
seems to me that we're always pursuing similar things, or we wouldn't be
together on the same road so often. You're acute enough. Don't you know
me now?"

"I think I do. You're Fernand Weber, the Alsatian."

"And so I am. I knew your memory would not fail you. It's a great
movement that we've begun, Mr. Scott. France will be saved or destroyed
within the next few days."

"I think so."

"You've deserted your friend, Philip Lannes, the finest of our airmen."

"Oh, no, I haven't. He's deserted me. I couldn't afford to be a burden
on his aeroplane at such a time as this."

"I suppose not. I saw an aeroplane come down to earth a little while
ago, and then rise again. I'm sure it was his machine, the _Arrow_."

"So am I."

"Here's where he naturally would be. G