The stream of fugitives, rich and poor, mingled, poured on without
ceasing. He did not know where they were going. Most of them did not
know themselves. He saw a great motor, filled high with people and
goods, break down in the streets, and he watched them while they worked
desperately to restore the mechanism. And yet there was no panic. The
sound of voices was not high. The Republic was justifying itself once
more. Silent and somberly defiant, the inhabitants were leaving Paris
before the giant German guns could rain shells upon the unarmed.

It was three or four hours until the time to meet Lannes, and drawn by
an overwhelming curiosity and anxiety he began the climb of the Butte
Montmartre. If observers on the Eiffel Tower could see the German forces
approaching, then with the powerful glasses he carried over his shoulder
he might discern them from the dome of the Basilica of the Sacred
Heart.

As he made his way up the ascent through the crooked and narrow little
streets he saw many eyes, mostly black and quick, watching him. This by
night was old Paris, dark and dangerous, where the Apache dwelled, and
by day in a fleeing city, with none to restrain, he might be no less
ruthless.

But John felt only friendliness for them all. He believed that common
danger would knit all Frenchmen together, and he nodded and smiled at
the watchers. More than one pretty Parisian, not of the upper classes,
smiled back at the American with the frank and open face.

Before he reached the Basilica a little rat of a young man stepped
before him and asked: