seat. The car, a beautiful French model, was familiar to Warren, and
he pressed the starter with perfect confidence. And he was justified.
Like a swallow, the beautiful machine skimmed the smooth and level
road, leaving Warsaw with all its tragedy and far behind.

Warren had scarcely slept for two nights. He had had but little food,
and his bandaged head felt light and strange. As they went on and on,
Warren commenced to wonder if he could possibly make the distant city.
At intervals strange colored lights flashed before his eyes, and faint,
booming noises sounded in his ears.

They had not encountered a soul. It was as though the whole country,
after its terrible conflict, lay dead. Finally a faint streak of gray
appeared in the east. Dawn was coming.

"How far to Lodz?" he called. "Just over the hill?"

"Just over yonder hill," said the man at his side.

Warren slowed down, and dropped one tired hand from the wheel.

"Where are you going when you get to the city?" he inquired.

"If we get through," the man replied, "I am to go to the palace where
lives a sister of our Princess. She has turned it into a hospital. By
a strange chance, our Prince was taken there when he was wounded. The
Princess must, be there now.'

"Very well," said Warren. "Direct me when we reach the city."