Sergeant Scheller paid no attention to the distant cannon fire, to which he had grown so used long since that he regarded it as one of the ordinary accompaniments of life, like the blowing of the wind.  He was in a good humor and he talked agreeably much about battle and march, although he betrayed no military secrets, chiefly because he had none to betray.

“I march here and I march there,” he said, “I and my men shoot at a certain point, and from a certain point we’re shot at.  That’s all I know.”

“And that, I take it, is the cathedral in Metz,” said John, pointing toward the top of a lofty spire showing against the blue.

“So it is, Castel, and here you’ll have to show your passport again.  We’re approaching the fortifications.  I couldn’t tell you about them if I would.  We drive along a narrow road between high earthworks and we see nothing.”

Their entry into Metz was slow and long.  John was compelled to show his passport again and again, and he answered innumerable questions, many searching and pointed, but again he was thrice lucky in knowing the town and something about Lorraine.

Now that he was inside, with a powerful German army all about him, he must decide soon what to do.  Fortunately he had made a friend of Scheller who advised him to go to a little Inn near the Moselle, much frequented by thrifty peasants, and John concluded to take his advice.

“Good-by, Castel,” said Scheller, reaching out a huge fist.  “I like you and I hope we’ll meet in Paris soon.”

John took the fist in a hand not as large as Scheller’s, but almost as powerful, and shook it.

“Here’s to the meeting in Paris,” he said, but he added under his breath, “may it happen, with you as my unwounded prisoner.”

He left Scheller after thanks for the ride, and found his way to the Inn of the Golden Lion, which was crowded with stout farmers and peasants.  It was old-fashioned, with a great room where most of the men sat on benches before a huge fire, which cast a cheerful glow over ruddy faces.  Some were eating sausage and drinking beer, and there was plenty of talk, mostly in German.

John modestly found a place near the fire for which he was very grateful, and ordered beer and cheese.  Apparently he was nothing but a peasant going about his own humble business, but he listened keenly to everything that was said, reckoning that someone ultimately would mention the Prince of Auersperg, or could be drawn into speaking of a man of so much consequence who might be present in Metz.

He attracted little attention, as he sat warming himself before the fire and listening.  People of French sympathies might be in the crowd, but if so they were silent, because nearly all the talkers were speaking of German success.  It was true that they had been turned back from Paris, but it meant a delay only, they would soon advance again, and this time they would crush France.  Meantime, von Hindenburg was smashing the Russians to pieces.  John smiled as he gazed into the crackling fire.  After all, the Germans were not supreme.  They knew a vast deal about war, but others could learn and did learn.  They were splendid soldiers, but there were others just as good and they had proved it.