"Has Lannes come?" asked John.

"Not yet, but of course he'll be here soon; by noon, I fancy."

John went out and took his breakfast with his comrades of the Strangers.
The morning was uncommonly bright. There was not a trace of cloud in the
heavens, which had turned to the soft, velvety blue that one sometimes
sees in winter, and which can make a man fancy that it is summer when he
looks up, rather than winter when he looks down.

While John ate and drank, he continually scanned the skies looking for
the coming of the _Arrow._ He saw aeroplanes hovering here and there
over the French and German lines, but none coming toward Chastel.

He had expected, too, that Weber might return in the morning, but he did
not reappear and John felt a distinct disappointment. Many had been
killed, but Wharton and Carstairs had reported that no body had
resembled Weber's. Then it was certain that he had not fallen. Perhaps
the Germans had driven him ahead of them, and he would rejoin the French
at some distant point.

The morning passed, slow and bright, but it did not bring Lannes.
General Vaugirard himself came about noon, a huge purring man in a huge
puffing automobile. He cast an approving eye over Bougainville's work,
and puffing his cheeks still wider whistled a low, musical note.

"It could not have been done better," he said. Then he caught sight of
John and exclaimed:

"Ah, here is our young American, he who has been transformed into a