Pierre gasped for breath. “I hope your home is safe,” he said hoarsely. “No place is safe today,” the driver retorted over his shoulder, swinging the battered old car expertly around curves. Braced as well as she could manage, Mme. Gagnon looked out with horror on the countryside. “My son and my daughter!” she cried. “Could they exist through such warfare as this? I must know, Pierre. It is worse than I imagined.” The doctor spoke soothingly, but broke off to shout, “Angell. Watch yourself!” A soldier had stepped out from the shelter of a ditch with upraised hand. “You must detour,” he said in French. “This lane and the road beyond are mined.” He pointed to one side. “Those fields are safe.” M. Angell muttered and nosed the car cautiously into the pasture. Circling shell holes, rocking over hummocks, he steered toward a shallow depression some distance ahead. After that he forced the car up a rise. As they neared the top, the sound of machine guns and rifle fire, which had been muffled, seemed to explode all around them. M. Angell brought the steaming car to a stop. He surveyed the landscape on all sides. After a moment he said, “If you will be kind enough to alight, I shall lead you to safety--but on your own feet. We must abandon this vehicle to the mercies of Heaven.” Mme. Gagnon said to the doctor, “It is cause for rejoicing, doctor, that your cure was successful and I _can_ walk. Stop frowning, Pierre. Each step I take leads toward home.” “At the moment,” snapped M. Angell, “our steps lead down that slope on the left, toward those cottages. That path,” and he pointed to the château, “leads to my house, but firing of considerable intensity is going on there.” [Illustration] A tremendous salvo of shells interrupted. Dense white smoke rolled over the hill and drifted through the trees lining the driveway to the château. “It sounds as though we were moving directly into the middle of a battle,” Mme. Gagnon said. M. Angell raised his head. “There is a skirmish there on the other side of the hill, which I do not understand,” he said. Pierre Gagnon stared around. At a fresh outbreak of gunfire Mme. Gagnon begged him to lower himself. But Pierre’s eyes were fixed wildly on a point near the cottages. His mouth dropped open and closed again excitedly. “Maman!” he gasped. “Patchou! I see Patchou!” The doctor and M. Angell turned to him in alarm. Mme. Gagnon stood up. “I do not see Patchou,” she cried. “But if he is here, certainly André must be near.” Suddenly the vague noises broke into a noisy scuffle on the rocky, brush-covered knoll above them. German and American voices rang out angrily. “It is unbearable!” Mme. Gagnon cried. “I must find André!” She broke and ran. Pierre gave a lunge. He caught his wife’s sleeve and was about to pull her to the ground when a racing dog, like a tornado, streaked up the slope. Patchou danced to Pierre and then to Mme. Gagnon, lathering their hands in rapturous welcome, yelping shrilly.