“That’s splendid news,” Jack at once remarked. “I’m glad for the sake of little Jacques that his brave father did not die there in front of Antwerp as you all believed. If I had time I’d like to hear his story, because I reckon it’d be well worth listening to. But we have business of our own to look after, and so must once more take leave of you.” “Do you think he will get well again?” asked Amos, who under different conditions, would only too willingly have volunteered to help take care of the wounded, since his education as a Boy Scout had taught him how to apply the principles of “first aid to the injured.” “We have strong hopes,” replied the old burgomaster. “Joy is better than all the medicine a doctor can bring. Jacques has found his father again; and besides, his young heart is filled with happiness because he was given a chance to strike a blow against the enemies of his country. Yes, he surely must get well now, and live to see a new day dawn for Belgium.” They both went over to nod to the boy, and the look of contentment upon his face told them his severe wounds were at the time forgotten in the thanksgiving that filled his heart. Both of them would in time to come often think of Jacques, and hope the good angel that had brought back his father would continue to guard the boy’s further fortunes. Once again Jack and Amos found themselves outside, and wandering amidst the ruins of the village where only recently the fighting had reached its height. Here was the high-tide mark of that furious German drive; just as Gettysburg marked the apex of the Lost Cause in the war between the States in ’63. Jack wondered whether history would repeat itself, for he believed that if Germany were defeated it would only be through the force of greater numbers arrayed against her, with pretty much all the world in arms. They wandered around seeking some means of learning where they could secure the information they required. Never would they forget the sights that greeted them on every side. The ground looked almost as though it had been ploughed, such were the number of shells that had fallen on that devoted village during the time it was under bombardment. To Amos it seemed incredible that any living thing could have remained there and lived through that holocaust of crashing shells; and yet those undaunted men in khaki must have found some sort of concealment, for every time the Teuton force charged, after a cessation in the firing, they were met by the British, and mowed down by the Maxims that were hurriedly brought to bear on the solid ranks coming forward.