"Which way, Monsieur?"

He was three or four years older than John, wearing uncommonly tight
fitting clothes of blue, a red cap with a tassel, and he was about five
feet four inches tall. But small as he was he seemed to be made of
steel, and he stood, poised on his little feet, ready to spring like a
leopard when he chose.

The blue eyes of the tall American looked steadily into the black eyes
of the short Frenchman, and the black eyes looked back as steadily. John
was fast learning to read the hearts and minds of men through their
eyes, and what he saw in the dark depths pleased him. Here were cunning
and yet courage; impudence and yet truth; caprice and yet honor. Apache
or not, he decided to like him.

"I'm going up into the lantern of the Basilica," he said, "to see if I
can see the Germans, who are my enemies as well as yours."

"And will not Monsieur take me, too, and let me have look for look with
him through those glasses at the Germans, some of whom I'm going to
shoot?"

John smiled.

"If you're going out potting Germans," he said, "you'd better get
yourself into a uniform as soon as you can. They have no mercy on _franc
tireurs_."

"I'll chance that. But you'll take me with you into the dome?"