But neither the somber day nor the melancholy convoy affected John’s spirits.  Chastel, a village of light—­light for him—­would be at the end of his journey.

Despite mud, slush and snow, traveling was pleasant.  The automobile had made wonderful changes.  One could go almost anywhere in it, and its daring drivers whisked it gaily over fields, through forests and up hills, which in reality could be called mountains.  War had merely increased their enterprise, and they took all kinds of risks, usually with success.

John was very comfortable now, as he leaned back in the armored car, driven by a young Frenchman.  He wore a heavy blue overcoat over his uniform, and his only weapon was a powerful automatic revolver in his belt, but it was enough.  The ambulances, filled with wounded, stretched a half-mile in front of him, but he had grown so used to such sights that they did not move him long.  Moreover in this war a man was not dead until he was dead.  The small bullets of the high-powered rifle either killed or harmed but little.  It was the shrapnel that tore.

The road led across low hills, and down slopes which he knew were kissed by a warm sun in summer.  It was here that the vines flourished, but the snow could not hide the fact that it was torn and trampled now.  Huge armies had surged back and forth over it, and yet John, who was of a thoughtful mind, knew that in a few more summers it would be as it had been before.  In this warm and watered France Nature would clothe the earth in a green robe which winter itself could not wholly drive away.

A reader of history, he knew that Europe had been torn and ravaged by war, times past counting, and yet geologically it was among the youngest and freshest of lands.  Everything would pass and new youth would take the place of the youth that the shells and bullets were now carrying away.

He shook himself.  Reflections like these were for men of middle years.  The tide of his own youth flowed back upon him and the world, even under snow and with stray guns thundering behind him, was full of splendor.  Moreover, there was the village of Chastel before him!  Chastel!  Chastel!  He had never heard of it until two or three days ago, and yet it now loomed in his mind as large as Paris or New York.  Julie must have arrived already, and he would see her again after so many months of hideous war, but deep down in his mind persisted the belief that she should not have come.  Lannes must have had some reason that he could not surmise, or he would not have written the letter asking her to meet him at Chastel.

The village, he learned from one of the men in the automobile, was only ten miles away and it was built upon a broad, low hill at the base of which a little river flowed.  It was very ancient.  A town of the Belgae stood there in Caesar’s time, but it contained not more than two thousand inhabitants, and its chief feature was a very beautiful Gothic cathedral.