"I wish I could!" exclaimed Phil. "It hurts to see those blue coats and red trousers coming back; but I don't believe they will go far." "Then you are for France! I am glad! But only a Frenchman can know how a Frenchman is for France!" A shrapnel broke over the woods, its bullets slittering through the leaves. "We had better see if those young women have gone into the cellar," said the General. Another shrapnel crashed its ugly message even nearer, a fragment striking at his feet. "Women are the very devil under fire," he added. "They will never take cover. A soldier considers it duty. Now if that does not send them into the cellar," he continued, as a heavy reverberation came from the direction of the village, "they have no sense at all. You have young legs. Run on and look after them." Phil found it no effort to run; his only regret was that he could not fly. "Never did have much respect for shell-fire!" mumbled the General. "I hope they don't hit my pigeons. I'd better go home and look after them." He walked on at a dignified pace, while the shells continued to burst over the woods and occasional high explosives in the village. Phil met him at the door of the house and reported: "Your orders are obeyed, sir. They are in the cellar." "Excellent!" "And they have sent orders to you. You are to come into the cellar, too, sir!" "I must look after my pigeons. I never had much respect for shell-fire----" He stopped short, struck by a thought. "If I were hit it would be just as serious as if my pigeons were hit. I----" "Quite so!" put in Phil. He had taken a liking to the General, whom war, to his mind, had transformed from a gallant old fussbudget of a beau to a brave and simple gentleman. "You have guessed my secret--the secret of my pigeons?" gasped the General in alarm. "Have I? Yes, I'm afraid I have, and I----" Something caught in his throat as he looked into the piercing grey eyes of the General. "I hope you know that the secret is safe." "I do. You are a man of honour and you have said that you are for France. And the only way to do my duty to France is to keep alive. I go into the cellar." As they passed through the kitchen a pane of glass fell with a tinkling crash as a shell-fragment hit it and a saucepan rattled. "Jacqueline will object to the Germans making omelets in her kitchen," said the General. "No one has ever appreciated Madame Ribot's cellar more than myself," he remarked as he descended the stairs. "Her wines are excellent. H-m, they are shelling the village pretty freely, though we have no troops there--a joke on the Germans." "But the people--what of them? Are they safe? Will they know enough to take cover?" asked Helen. "Of course," said the General. "It's horrible to think that Mère Perigord and the children should be exposed out of ignorance!" Helen sprang past the General and up the stairs. "This is where I intervene!" said Phil, starting after her.