Delaunois left him, had been to destroy the passport that General
Vaugirard had given him and there was not a scratch of writing about him
to identify him as John Scott.

Whistling louder than ever, and looking vacant of countenance, he walked
boldly toward the first rifle pit, and, when the sharp hail of the
German sentry came, he promptly threw up his hands. An officer whom he
took to be a lieutenant and four or five men came toward him. All wore
heavy gray overcoats and they were really boys rather than men; not one
of them, including the officers, seeming to be more than twenty. But
they were large and muscular, heavily tanned by wind and snow and rain.

John had learned to read character, and as he walked carelessly toward
them he nevertheless watched them keenly. And so watching he judged that
they were honest youths, ready to like or hate, according to orders from
the men higher up, but by nature simple and direct. He did not feel any
fear of them.

"Halt!" said the officer, whom John judged to be a Saxon--he had seen
his kind in Dresden and Leipsic.

John stopped obediently, and raised his hand in a clumsy military
fashion, standing there while they looked him over.

"Now you can come forward, still with your hands up," said the officer,
though not in any fierce manner, "and tell us who you are."

John advanced, and they quickly searched him, finding no weapon.

"You can take your hands down," said the officer. "Unarmed, I don't