“Marne, old boy,” he said, “I think it’s about time for you and me to go.”

The horse rubbed his great head against John’s arm, signifying that he was ready to obey any command his new master might give him.  John knew from his build that he was a draught horse, but there were times in which one could not choose a particular horse for a particular need.

“Marne, old fellow,” he said, stroking the animal’s mane, “you’re not to be a menial cart horse tonight.  I am an Arabian genie and I hereby turn you into a light, smooth, beautifully built automobile for one passenger only, and I’m that passenger.”

Holding fast to the thick mane he sprang upon the horse’s back, and urged him down the stream, keeping close to the water where there was shelter among the willows and bushes.  He had no definite idea in his head, but he felt that if he kept on going he must arrive somewhere.  He was afraid to make the horse swim the river in an effort to reach the French army.  Appearing on the surface of the water he felt that he would almost certainly be seen and some good rifleman or other would be sure to pick him off.

He concluded at last that if no German troops came in sight he would let the horse take him where he would.  Marne must have a home and a master somewhere and habit would send him to them.  So he ceased to push at his neck and try to direct him, and the horse continued a slow and peaceful progress down the stream in the shadow of small trees.  The night was darker than those just before it, and the dampness of the air indicated possible flurries of rain.  Cannon still rumbled on the horizon like the thunder of a summer night.

While trusting to the horse to lead him to some destination, John kept a wary watch, with eyes now growing used to the darkness.  If German troops appeared and speed to escape were lacking, he would jump from Marne’s back and hunt a new covert.  But he saw nobody.  The evidences of man’s work were present continually in the cannonade, but man himself was absent.

The horse went on with ponderous and sure tread.  Evidently he had wandered far under the influence of the firing, but it was equally evident that his certain instinct was guiding him back again.  He crossed a brook flowing down into the Marne, passed through a wheat field, and entered a little valley, where grew a number of oaks, clear of undergrowth.

When he saw what was lying under the oaks he pulled hard at the rough mane, until the horse stopped.  He had distinctly made out the figures of men, stretched upon the ground, apparently asleep, and sure to be Germans.  He stared hard at them, but the horse snorted and tried to pull away.  The action of the animal rather than his own eyesight made him reckon aright.

A horse would not be afraid of living men, and, slipping from the back of Marne, John approached cautiously.  A few rays of wan moonlight filtered through the trees, and when he had come close he shuddered over and over again.  About a dozen men lay on the ground and all were stone dead.  The torn earth and their own torn figures showed that a shell had burst among them.  Doubtless it had been an infantry patrol, and the survivors had hurried away.