“I fear that it is so,” said the gigantic peasant, a shadow crossing his stern face, “but, sir, one thing is decided.  France, the France of the Revolution, the France that belongs to its people, will not fall.”

John looked at him with a new interest.  Here was a peasant, but a thinking peasant, and there were millions like him in France.  They were not really peasants in the old sense of the word, but workingmen with a stake in the country, and the mind and courage to defend it.  It might be possible to beat the army of a nation, but not a nation in arms.

“No, Picard,” said John, “France will not fall.”

“And that being settled, sir,” said Picard, with grim humor, “I think you’d better lie down again.  You’ve talked a lot for a man who has been unconscious four days.”

“You’re right, my good Picard, as I’ve no doubt you usually are.  Was I troublesome, much, when I was out in the dark?”

“But little, sir.  I’ve lifted much heavier men, and that Dr. Delorme is strong himself, not afraid, either, to use the knife.  Ah, sir, you should have seen how beautifully he worked right under the fire of the German guns!  Psst! if need be he’d have taken a leg off you in five minutes, as neatly as if he had been in a hospital in Paris!”

John felt apprehensively for his legs.  Both were there, and in good condition.

“If that man ever comes near me with the intention of cutting off one of my legs I’ll shoot him, good fellow and good doctor though he may be,” he said.  “Help me up a little higher, will you, Picard?  I want to see what kind of a place we’re in.”

Picard built up a little pyramid of saddles and knapsacks behind him and John drew himself up with his back against them.  The rows and rows of wounded stretched as far as he could see, and there was a powerful odor of drugs.  Around him was a forest, of the kind with which he had become familiar in Europe, that is, of small trees, free from underbrush.  He saw some distance away soldiers walking up and down and beyond them the vague outline of an earthwork.

“What place is this, anyway, Picard?” he asked.

“It has no name, sir.  It’s a hospital.  It was built in the forest in a day.  More than five thousand wounded lie here.  The army itself is further on.  You were found and brought in by some young officers of that most singular company composed of Americans and English who are always quarreling among one another, but who unite and fight like demons against anybody else.”

“A dollar to a cent it was Wharton and Carstairs who brought me here,” said John, smiling to himself.

“What does Monsieur say?”

“Merely commenting on some absent friends of mine.  But this isn’t a bad place, Picard.”

The shed was of immense length and breadth and just beyond it were some small buildings, evidently of hasty construction.  John inferred that they were for the nurses and doctors, and he wondered which one sheltered Julie Lannes.  The forest seemed to be largely of young pines, and the breeze that blew through it was fresh and wholesome.  As he breathed it young Scott felt that he was inhaling new life and strength.  But the wind also brought upon its edge that far faint murmur which he knew was the throbbing of the great guns, miles and miles away.