ou tell us, Castel, how
soon we can take Paris and London and go back to the Unter den Linden?"

John shook his head.

"There are about fifteen hundred million people in the world who are
asking that question, Otto Scheller," he replied, "and out of all the
fifteen hundred millions not one can answer it. But I will ask you a
question in return."

"What is it?"

"Will you give me a ride in one of your wagons to Metz?"

"Why, certainly," replied Scheller. "Your passport is in good order, and
we can take you to the first line of fortifications. There you'll meet
high officers and you'll have to make more statements, because Metz, as
you know, is one of the most powerful fortresses in Europe."

"I know; why shouldn't I, a Lorrainer, know? But my passport will take
me in. Meanwhile, I thank you, Otto Scheller, for the kindness you're
showing me."

"All right, jump in, and off we go."

It was a provision wagon, drawn by stout Percherons, which John felt
sure had been bred in France, and which he also felt sure had never been
paid for by German money. The wagon was empty now, evidently having
delivered its burden nearer the battle lines, and John found a
comfortable seat beside the sergeant, while a stout _Pickelhaube_ drove.

"Looks like peace, Castel," said the sergeant, waving his hand at the
landscape, "but things are not always what they seem."

"How so?"

"See the hills across there. The French hold part of them, and often
the artillery goes boom! boom! They threaten an attack on Metz. We shall
hear the cannon before long."

John looked long at the hills, high, white and silent, but presently
they began to groan and mutter as Scheller had predicted they would.
Flashes of flame appeared and giant shells were emptied like gusts of
lava from a volcano. One burst in the road about three hundred yards in
front of them, and tore a hole so deep that they were compelled to drive
around it.

"The French are good with the guns," said Scheller, regarding the
excavation meditatively, "but of course it was by mere chance that the
shell struck in the road."

John felt a light and momentary chill. It would certainly be the irony
of fate if on his great quest he were smitten down by a missile from his
own army. But no others struck near them, although the intermittent
battle of artillery in the hills continued.

Sergeant Scheller paid no attention to the distant cannon fire, to which
he had grown so used long since t