ou come
back to a Paris still French!"

John bowed to them both and with tact and delicacy withdrew from the
room. He felt that there should be no witness of Philip's farewell to
his mother and sister, before going on a journey from which the chances
were that he would never return.

He strolled down the hall, pretending to look at an old picture or two,
and in a few minutes Lannes came out and joined him. John saw tears in
his eyes, but his face was set and stern. Neither spoke until they
reached the front door, which the giant, Picard, opened for them.

"If the worst should happen, Antoine," said Lannes, "and you must be the
judge of it when it comes, take them to Lyons, to our cousins the
Menards."

"I answer with my life," said the man, shutting together his great
teeth, and John felt that it was well for the two women to have such a
guardian. Under impulse, he said:

"I should like to shake the hand of a man who is worth two of most men."

Whether the French often shake hands or not, his fingers were enclosed
in the mighty grasp of Picard, and he knew that he had a friend for
life. When they went out Lannes would not look back and was silent for a
long time. The day was warm and beautiful, and the stream of fugitives,
the sad procession, was still flowing from the city. Troops too were
moving, and it seemed to John that they passed in heavier masses than on
the day before.

"I went out last night while you slept," said Lannes, when they were
nearly at the hangar, "and I will tell you that I bear a message to one
of our most important generals. I carry it in writing, and also in
memory in case I lose the written word. That is all I feel at liberty to
tell you, and in truth I know but little more. The message comes from
our leader to the commander of the army at Paris, who in turn orders me
to deliver it to the general whom we're going to seek. It directs him
with his whole force to move forward to a certain point and hold fast
there. Beyond that I know nothing. Its whole significance is hidden from
me. I feel that I can tell you this, John, as we're about to start upon
a journey which has a far better prospect of death than of life."

"I'm not afraid," said John, and he told the truth. "I feel, Philip,
that great events are impending and that your dispatch or the effect of
it will be a part in some gigantic plan."

"I feel that way, too. What an awful crisis! The Germans moved nearer in
the dark. I didn't