counts!" exclaimed Wharton.

John joined them, and Bougainville, taking command of the whole battle,
directed the charge upon the town. The spirits of the French were at the
highest, and shouting tremendously they soon passed through Chastel and
drove the enemy beyond it, headlong into the forest. Having superior
numbers now, a better knowledge of the ground and led by a man of genius
like Bougainville, they soon broke up the German force, capturing a part
of it, while the rest fleeing eastward, burst through the French
trenches, and, after further heavy losses, succeeded in getting back to
the main German army.

The pursuit was carried on some time by the French cavalry which had
appeared as the last charge was made, but Bougainville, with the clear
note of trumpets, recalled the infantry. He was satisfied with the
victory that had been won in Chastel, and he did not wish to exhaust his
troops with vain rushes in the deep snow.

The Strangers halted with the rest, and John, coming out of the red rage
that had possessed his soul, saw that Captain Colton was uninjured and
that Carstairs and Wharton, who stood near him, had only scratches.

"Grazed four times," said Carstairs happily. "The bullets knew a good
man when they saw him, and turned aside just in time to give him slight
but honorable wounds."

"Two scratches for me, too," said Wharton.

"Which proves what I told you," said Carstairs, "that it was often luck,
not skill, that saved you."

"Both count," said Captain Colton, tersely. "Napoleon had immense skill.
Suppose bad luck had sent a bullet into his heart in his first battle in
Italy. Would have been forgotten in a day. And if no bullet had ever
touched him, wouldn't have amounted to much, without immense skill."

"Do we go back to Chastel, sir?" asked John.

"Back to what's left of it. Not much, I think. See nothing but Gothic
tower!"

John looked up. The great Gothic spire hung over a scene of desolation
and ruin, now complete save for the cathedral itself. Otherwise not an
undamaged house remained in Chastel. Fires still smoldered, and the
largest of them all, marked where the Hotel de l'Europe had stood. The
firing had ceased save for a distant murmur where the cavalry still
pursued, and John choked as he gazed at ruined Chastel. He looked most
often at the burning Hotel de l'Europe where he had spent such happy
hours, the happiest, in truth, of his life, hours that glowed. He could
see as vivi