come from exaltation, and that mood was his.

He followed what seemed to be a little path under the snow, leading
along the side of the mountain toward the eastward, the way he would go.
Here portions of the earth were exposed, where the snow had already
melted much under the heat of the high sun. Three or four hundred feet
below a brook ran noisily over stones, but that was the only sound in
the mountains. He felt though that the Germans must be somewhere near.
Men with glasses might be watching him already.

He decided at once upon his rôle. In Europe peasants were often heavy
and loutish. It was expected of them, and none would be heavier or more
loutish than he. He thrust both hands in his pockets, and began to
whistle familiar German songs and hymns, varying them now and then with
a chanson or two that might have been sung for centuries in Lorraine.

The path led on across a little valley and then along the slope of
another ridge. Under the increasing heat of the sun the snow was now
melting much faster, and streams ran in every ravine. But the stalwart
young peasant, Jean Castel of Lorraine, was sure of his footing, and he
advanced steadily toward his goal.

Germans in rifle pits saw the figure coming their way, and several
officers examined it critically with their glasses. All pronounced the
stranger obviously a peasant, and they were equally sure that he could
do them no harm. He was coming straight toward their pits and so they
awaited him with some curiosity.

John presently caught the shimmer of sun on bayonets, and he knew now
that he would soon reach the German earthworks. His first care after