While he slept, firing was resumed at points on the long double line.
Rifles flashed, and incautious heads or hands were struck, and somewhere
or other the cannon were always muttering. But it was all in the day's
work. Months of it had made his whole system physical and mental so used
to it that it did not awaken him now.

Nevertheless the hosts of the air were uncommonly active while he slept.
The wireless, sputtering and crackling, was carrying the news from
general to general that a smart little action had been fought at
Chastel, where another smart little action had been fought not long
before, that the Germans had been overly daring and had paid for it.

Yet it was only an incident on a gigantic battle front that extended its
mighty curving line from Switzerland to the sea, and soon the wireless
and its older brother the telephone, and its oldest brother the
telegraph, talked of other plans which would cause a much greater
slaughter than at Chastel. Chastel itself, unless its beautiful Gothic
cathedral brooding unharmed over the ruins could win it a word or two,
would have no place at all in history. John himself was only one among
eight or ten million armed men, and not a single one of all those
millions knew that he lay there in the snow under the hedge.

The aeroplanes came out in the clear frosty blue, and both German and
French machines sauntered lazily up and down the air lanes, but they did
not risk encounters with one another. They were scouting with powerful
glasses, or directing the fire of the batteries. One French machine
circled directly over John, not more than two or three hundred feet
away, but the man in it, keen of eye though he was, did not dream that
one of the bravest of the Strangers lay asleep under the hedge beneath
him.