They heard a roar that turned to a shriek, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a black shadow passing over their heads.  Then a huge shell burst behind them, and the air was filled with hissing fragments of steel.  But in their five feet of earth they were untouched, although horrible fumes as of lyddite or some other hideous compound assailed them.

“This is the life,” said Wharton, resuming his usual cheerfulness.  “I take back what I said about our beautiful trench.  Just now I appreciate it more than I would the greenest and loveliest landscape in England or all America.  Oh, it’s a glorious trench!  A splendid fortress for weak human flesh, finer than any castle that was ever built!”

“Don’t be dithyrambic, Wharton,” said Carstairs.  “Besides the change is too sudden.  It hasn’t been a minute since you were pouring abuse upon our safe and happy little trench.”

“It’s time for the Germans to begin,” said John, looking at his watch.  “We’d better lie close for the next hour.”

They heard the shrieking of more shells and soon the whole earth rocked with the fire of the great guns.  The hostile trenches were only a few hundred yards in front of them, but the German batteries all masked, or placed in pits, were much further away.  The French cannon were stationed in like fashion behind their own trenches.

John and his comrades, for the allotted hour, hugged the side of the trench nearest to the Germans.  The shells from the heavy guns came at regular intervals.  Far in the rear men were killed and others were wounded, but no fragment of steel dropped in their trench.  There was not much danger unless one of the shells should burst almost directly over their heads, and they were so used to these bombardments that they paid little attention to them, except to keep close as long as they lasted.

Wharton resumed his novel, Carstairs, sitting on one end of a rude wooden bench, began a game of solitaire, and John, at the other end, gave himself over to dreaming, which the regulated thunder of many cannon did not disturb at all.

It had been months now since he had parted with Philip and Julie Lannes.  He had seen Philip twice since, but Julie not at all When the German army made a successful stand near the river Aisne, and both sides went into trenches, Lannes had come in the Arrow and, in reply to John’s restrained but none the less eager questions, had said that Julie was safe in Paris again with her mother, Antoine Picard and the faithful Suzanne.  She had wanted to return to the front as a Red Cross nurse, but Madame Lannes would not let her go.

A month later he saw Lannes again and Julie was still in the capital, but he inferred from Philip’s words rather than his tone that she was impatient.  Thousands of French girls were at the front, attending to the wounded, and sharing hardship and danger.  John knew that Julie had a will like her brother’s and he believed that, in time, she would surely come again to the battle lines.