above the whirling snow. As well as he could see
some damage had been done to the roof by shells, but the beautiful
stained-glass windows were uninjured. He stood there gazing, and he knew
in his heart that he was looking for a sign, like that which he and
Lannes had seen on the Arc de Triomphe when the fortunes of France
seemed lost forever.

A stalwart figure suddenly emerged from the white gloom and heavy hands
were laid upon him. John's own fingers in his overcoat pocket tightened
over the automatic, but the hands on his shoulders were those of
friendship.

"Ah, it is thou, Monsieur Scott!" exclaimed a deep voice. "The master
has not come but thou art thrice welcome in his place!"

It was Picard, no less than Antoine Picard himself, looming white and
gigantic through the storm, and John could not doubt the genuine warmth
in his voice. He was in truth welcome and he knew it. As Picard's hands
dropped from his shoulders he seized them in his and wrung them hard.

"Mademoiselle Julie!" he exclaimed. "What of her? Did she come? Or have
you only come in her place?"

"She is here, sir! In the church with Suzanne, my daughter. We arrived
two hours ago. I wanted to go on to the camp that we could see in the
plain below, but Mademoiselle Lannes would not hear of it. It was here
that Monsieur Philip wished her to meet him, and if she went on he would
miss her. We expected to find food and rooms, but, my God, sir, the town
is deserted! Most of the houses have been shot to pieces by the
artillery and if people are here we cannot find them. Because of that we
have taken shelter, for the present, in the church."

But John in his eagerness was already pushing open one of the huge
bronze doors, and Picard, brushing some of the snow from his clothes,
followed him. The door swung shut behind them both, and he stood beside
one of the pews staring into the dusky interior.

But his eyes became used to the gloom, and soon it did not seem so
somber as it was outside. Instead the light from the stained-glass
windows made the mists and shadows luminous. A nave, the lofty pillars
dividing it from the side aisles, the choir and the altar emerged slowly
into view. From the walls pictures of the Madonna and the saints,
unstained and untouched, looked down upon him. One of the candles near
the altar had been lighted, and it burned with a steady, beckoning
flame.

The cathedral, a great building for a small town, as happens so often in