“That’s true enough,” came the answer, “and our old landlord the burgomaster was of the number, though I reckon he insisted on most of his people going away. They had a good deep cellar under that cottage, he told us; perhaps no German shell buried itself down there to find them out. Come, let’s head that way. I’ve got an idea the one house we can see standing over there is the very home where we were taken in.” “I hope so, Jack, I surely do!” exclaimed the other boy fervently. “I’d hate to learn that such a fine old man had been done for. If that is the house, though, I’d never recognize it with the corners torn off, and the chimney fallen in ruins. Oh, Jack, see, there’s a gaping hole in the wall showing where a shell passed through. If it exploded inside we can guess the fate of all that were hiding there.” “Look again, Amos, and you’ll see that it came out through that hole, and buried itself in the ground right here. It was a German shell, of course, as pretty much all that fell upon this place must have been; for the British were behind the houses holding the enemy off, and every effort was made to chase them out.” “But they held their ground, it seems like,” said Amos, “and with the coming of reinforcements pushed the Germans back a mile or more. Now to find out what happened to the old burgomaster. “Jack, tell me, isn’t that some one moving around inside the ruins of the cottage?” “I do believe you’re right, Amos. We’ll soon know who it is,” replied the Western boy, as he made for the doorway. The cottage could only be called a ruin, even though its four walls still stood, and part of the roof seemed to be fairly intact. A tree just outside that had given grateful shade for many years was stripped of its limbs, and the trunk stood like a gaunt skeleton, a grim reminder of the furious hail of bombs that had fallen upon that devoted village for hours. Jack had to almost climb over the mass of debris that cumbered the open doorway. He immediately found that the wrecked cottage did have occupants. Several figures were stretched upon blankets on the floor, and others hovered over them, showing that the place was really being used as a sort of hospital. Jack immediately saw, however, that those who were being thus attended were not soldiers of the line. One was a woman, another an old man, while the third seemed to be a small figure, presumably that of a mere lad. A hand clutched Jack’s arm, and the voice of his chum whispered hoarsely in his ear: “Our old friend has come through it all with his life, Jack; don’t you see him giving that boy a drink, and passing his hand over the poor little chap’s forehead? Seems to me I’ve set eyes on that boy before, and--yes, as sure as anything, Jack, I do believe it’s little Jacques. He’s been struck down, just as we feared.”