It was about halfway between midnight and morning when John stopped the machine among dense pines on the very crest of a mountain, where the road, without any reason, seemed to end.  Antoine awoke with a start and, springing out, began to curse himself under his breath for having gone to sleep.

“Take no blame, Antoine,” said John.  “You could have done nothing then, and it was much better for you to have slept.  You now have back all your strength and we may need it.”

Julie awoke with a start and after a moment or two of bewilderment understood.  Then she gave John that old brilliant, flashing look, softened now by the memory of a kiss when no hand was at the wheel.

“Julie,” said John, trusting as ever in her courage, “we seem to have come to the end of things.  Our enemies are in the valley following us, and it’s not hard to trace the path of our automobile.  I don’t know how many will come, but Antoine and I can make a stand with the rifles.”

“All hope is not yet lost!” said Suzanne, in a voice as deep as that of a man.  “Remember that when the earth cannot hide us the air may open to receive us.  Remember, too, Mademoiselle Julie, that your brother seeks you, and when the time comes we are to look aloft.”

Driven again by that extraordinary impulse, John and Julie gazed up.  But they saw only the dancing stars in the blue velvet of the sky.

“He may come!  He may come in time!” said Suzanne, speaking like an inspired prophet of old, and her manner carried conviction.  John, clinging to the last desperate hope, recalled how Lannes and he had summoned Castelneau and Mery from the sky to save them, and though it was a wild hope he resolved to send up the same signal.

It was a quick task to gather dry wood and build a little heap, Julie and Suzanne helping with energy and enthusiasm.  There were plenty of matches in the car, and presently John lighted the heap, which crackled and sent up leaping tongues of flame.

“It may serve also as a signal to those who follow us,” he said, “but we must take the chance.  Cavalry can’t reach us except by the road that we came and with our rifles we can hold it a long time.”

The mention of the word “rifle,” put a thought in the head of Antoine Picard, in whose veins the blood of Vikings flowed, and who that night was a veritable Viking of the land.  Leaving John and the two women to feed the signal fire, he secured one of the powerful breech-loading rifles from the automobile, and quietly stole down the path.

Antoine, although he held a modern weapon in his hand, had shed centuries of civilization.  As still as death as he trod lightly in the dark road, he was, nevertheless, consumed with the wild Berserk rage against those who followed him.  He knew that hussars would soon appear on the slope, but he intended that a lion should be in their path and he stroked lovingly the barrel of the powerful breech-loader.  Behind him the flames were shooting higher and higher, pouring red streaks against the velvet blue of the sky.  But all of Picard’s attention was concentrated now on what lay before him.