He stopped before the cathedral, and looked up at the lofty Gothic spire
which seemed to tower above the whirling snow. As well as he could see
some damage had been done to the roof by shells, but the beautiful
stained-glass windows were uninjured. He stood there gazing, and he knew
in his heart that he was looking for a sign, like that which he and
Lannes had seen on the Arc de Triomphe when the fortunes of France
seemed lost forever.

A stalwart figure suddenly emerged from the white gloom and heavy hands
were laid upon him. John's own fingers in his overcoat pocket tightened
over the automatic, but the hands on his shoulders were those of
friendship.

"Ah, it is thou, Monsieur Scott!" exclaimed a deep voice. "The master
has not come but thou art thrice welcome in his place!"

It was Picard, no less than Antoine Picard himself, looming white and
gigantic through the storm, and John could not doubt the genuine warmth
in his voice. He was in truth welcome and he knew it. As Picard's hands
dropped from his shoulders he seized them in his and wrung them hard.

"Mademoiselle Julie!" he exclaimed. "What of her? Did she come? Or have
you only come in her place?"

"She is here, sir! In the church with Suzanne, my daughter. We arrived
two hours ago. I wanted to go on to the camp that we could see in the
plain below, but Mademoiselle Lannes would not hear of it. It was here
that Monsieur Philip wished her to meet him, and if she went on he would
miss her. We expected to find food and rooms, but, my God, sir, the town