“Now I see the troops,” he said, after a long look.  “Frenchmen, Frenchmen, Frenchmen, infantry in thousands and scores of thousands, big guns in scores and hundreds, cuirassiers, hussars, cannoneers!  Ah!  It’s a sight to kindle a dead heart back to life!  John, this is one of the great wheels in the mighty machine that is to move forward!  Here come two aeroplanes, scouts sent forward to see who and what we are.”

“You are sure they contain genuine Frenchmen?  Remember the fellow who shot you.”

“Frenchmen, good and true.  I can see them for myself.”

He moved his hand, and in a few moments John heard hissing and purring near, as if great birds were flying to meet him.  The outlines of the hovering planes showed by his side, and Lannes called in a loud voice to shrouded and visored men.

“Philip Lannes and his comrade, John Scott, with a message from Paris to the commander!” he exclaimed.

He was his old self again, erect, intense, dramatic.  He evidently expected the name Philip Lannes to be known well to them, and it was, as a cheer followed high in air.

“Now, John,” said Lannes, “Be careful!  Your hardest task is before you, to land.  But I’ve noticed that with you the harder the task the better you do it.  Make for that wide green space to the left of the stream and come down as slowly and gently as you can.  Just slide down.”

John had a fleeting glimpse of thousands of faces looking upward, but he held a true course for the grassy area, and with a multitude looking on his nerve was never steadier.  Amid great cheering the Arrow came safely to rest at her appointed place.  John and Lannes stepped forth, as an elderly man in a quiet uniform came forward to meet them.

Lannes, holding himself stiffly erect, drew a paper from his pocket and extended it to the general.

“A letter, sir, from the commander-in-chief of all our armies,” he said, saluting proudly.

As the general took the letter, Lannes’ knees bent beneath him, and he sank down on his face.

CHAPTER III

IN THE FRENCH CAMP

John rushed forward and grasped his comrade.  The sympathetic hands of others seized him also, and they raised him to his feet, while an officer gave him stimulant out of a flask, John meanwhile telling who his comrade was.  Lannes’ eyes opened and he flushed through the tan of his face.

“Pardon,” he said, “it was a momentary weakness.  I am ashamed of myself, but I shall not faint again.”

“You’ve been shot,” said the officer, looking at his sanguinary cap and face.

“So I have, but I ask your pardon for it.  I won’t let it occur again.”

Lannes was now standing stiffly erect, and his eyes shone with pride, as the general, a tall, elderly man, rapidly read the letter that Philip had delivered with his own hand.  The officer who had spoken of his wound looked at him with approval.