No one then said a needless word, not even Roy. The sense of banishment and of captivity pressed upon them all with a new force, at the sight of this fortified town, with its massive encircling walls, its iron gates, its pervading gendarmerie. If any lack of realisation of their true position had helped them hitherto, it had small chance of surviving this hour.

At the gate they had to pause, a gendarme coming to the coach door. He said something to Denham, which made Colonel Baron ask sharply—

"Eh, what's that?"

"We are to go first to the citadel. Not necessary for Mrs. Baron and Roy. You and I might walk it, sir, and send them on."

"No, no," Mrs. Baron interposed; "I cannot go on alone. We will keep together."

"A pity," murmured Ivor; and Colonel Baron looked doubtfully from him to his wife.

"I am not going to do it," she repeated, with her manner of graceful determination; and then, earnestly, "Do not ask it of me—pray do not!" No more could be said, and the man was ordered to drive on.

Verdun at that date lay in the then French province of Lorraine, the then French department of the Meuse, upon which river it was built. Distant from Paris somewhere about one hundred and fifty miles, it was also within about fifty miles, in different directions, of two towns which have since become vividly historic, Sédan and Metz. The river thereabouts follows a tortuous course, and the lower part of Verdun stood mainly on little islands in the Meuse, while the upper part led to the French citadel, which crowned a rocky summit.

The valley, containing the town, ran north-west and south-east, being surrounded by hills.

On reaching the citadel Mrs. Baron and Roy were desired by the Colonel to remain in the coach, while he and Denham disappeared within, there to be carefully examined and closely questioned, and having again to give their parole. After which they came out, the Colonel saying shortly—

"That business is done! Tell them where to go, Den. They seem determined to know us again."

"Were they civil?" his wife asked.

"No end of a fuss, my dear. As if the word of an English gentleman were not sufficient. Close description of us both written in the register."

Once more they drove on, Roy gazing from side to side, noting the small insignificant shops, and exclaiming at occasional peeps of the river with an interest which never quite failed him. The others were for the most part silent. Mrs. Baron's eyes were dim, the Colonel was pre-occupied, and Ivor, usually the most observant of men, seemed to see nothing.

Presently they stopped before the gateway of a large old house or small private "hôtel," with an untidy little courtyard. An old Frenchman, in quaint dress, grey-haired, with an imposing pig-tail, came to meet them, bowing profoundly to the gentlemen, and still more profoundly to Mrs. Baron.

"C'est, sans doute, Monsieur le Colonel—et Madame——"

Colonel Baron's particular gift did not lie in the direction of foreign languages. He never could talk French, and probably he never would, no matter how many years he might be compelled to live in France.

"Oui, monsieur. Bon jour. C'est nous qui sont viendrai," he responded, feeling it incumbent on him to say something, as he descended from the old coach. "J'espère que vous êtes bien. Je suis bien aise que nous sommes haut—pas bas—pas près de le rivière. Bother their grammar, Denham; you can do it better than I. Just say what's suitable."

Denham obeyed, and the next object which dawned upon Roy's perceptions was the sad and gentle face of Lucille de St. Roques. He seized her hand vehemently.

"I say, mademoiselle, it's nice to find you here. Isn't it, Den? Mamma, this is Mademoiselle de St. Roques. Papa, you know she helped to nurse me after I'd had small-pox. Are we going to live upstairs, mademoiselle? Is that what it's to be? The whole upstairs, all to ourselves? What fun! Which way is it? Oh, I see! This way, mamma. Those poor horses do look tired, just half-starved, and so skinny. Is there a stable for them? Are we to have tea? Dinner! that's right. We didn't get half a dinner to-day, and I'm famished. What a droll old staircase? Do look out of this window, mamma."

Roy's flow of spirits helped them all. The Colonel and his wife gratefully expressed their thanks to the French girl for her past kindness to their boy, both being much attracted by her face and her pretty manner as she led the way upstairs to the first floor. There stood Madame Courant, a fat and smiling little Frenchwoman, ready to bestow unlimited welcomes upon the unfortunate foreigners.

Lucille had exchanged bows with Ivor at first, and then had a few words with him, scanning his face as she talked, with rather troubled glances. There was, however, small leisure at first for any quiet conversation. The rooms had to be inspected, and they were found to be not at all bad as to size, though meagrely furnished. Lucille had set her heart on making everything wear as far as possible an English look, using her childish recollections of a home across the Channel; and if she was less successful than she had hoped, nobody betrayed the fact. It was clear to them all how hard she had worked to render the place comfortable.

"But it has been no trouble—non, vraiment—not at all," she assured them, with her pensive smile, when they apologised.

While sincerely anxious to help, full of sympathy for their position, and most desirous to cheer them up, she plainly feared to be guilty of intrusion, and very soon she took herself off with Madame Courant to the ground floor. A somewhat clumsy but well-intentioned maiden had been deputed to wait upon the upstairs party—probably had been hired for the purpose, since Madame Courant did most of her own house-work—and dinner was laid in the smaller salon in readiness for their arrival.

On the whole that first meal might be reckoned a success. Madame Courant was no mean cook; and though not much could be said as to the actual waiting, from an English point of view, that was a minor matter, compared with the comfort of finding clean and cosy quarters, not to speak of a kind reception. Roy did his best to supply all deficiencies in the conversational line, and his efforts were seconded, though not vigorously, by Denham.

When, however, dinner was at an end, and they had moved into the larger salon, which was to be their drawing-room—when a long evening lay before them, and there was nothing that had to be done, beyond a certain amount of unpacking and arranging, which no one felt disposed to begin upon at once—then a change came. Then the shadow of their captivity descended heavily upon them all, even upon the valiant Roy; and for once the spirit of cheerfulness and of keeping up seemed to vanish.

For a quarter of an hour they all remained together, no one speaking. No one was able to speak. They had nothing whatever to say. And presently, when this had gone on a little while, Mrs. Baron made a move, retreating into her own bedroom, avowedly to "see to a few things," but in reality, as they all knew, to indulge in a breakdown—her husband, after a brief hesitation, going thither also. Denham had flagged completely, retreating to a shady corner near the big fireplace, where he could scarcely be seen; and for Ivor to flag meant the flagging of everybody. As for Roy—but that he would have been ashamed, counting himself already almost a man, he could at this stage have flung himself on the ground and cried like a little child for very home-sickness.

He wanted Molly—oh, most awfully! He wanted her this evening more than he had ever wanted anything or anybody in his whole life. The craving that took possession of him for Molly's face, Molly's voice, Molly's companionship—the passionate desire to have dear little Molly once more by his side—was a pain never to be forgotten.

Roy did not know how to bear himself under it. He had nothing to do, nothing with which to pass the time. He stood at the window, looking out upon the darkness, trying desperately to be cool and stoical, as one five minutes crawled by after another. Denham never moved, never spoke a word. Roy could just make out his dark outline, as motionless as a carved image, a few yards distant. If only Denham would have talked, if something would have happened, if somebody would have come in, it would have been easier to keep going. But nobody came, nothing happened, and Denham did not stir.

Roy drummed with his fingers on the window-sill. He could hear shrill voices out in the street, not far off, and the sound of some tuneless instrument. One of the two candles was gone with Mrs. Baron, leaving the room dim. He tried to listen, tried not to think. And just when he counted himself victorious, there was a queer little catch of his breath which sounded suspicious. Roy drummed again angrily, hoping that Denham had not heard. He might be asleep, he was so still. But, after a slight break, he said—

"Come here."

Roy unwillingly obeyed. He would have liked to refuse, but he looked upon Ivor as in some sort his commanding officer, so of course he had no choice.

"They're making no end of a row out there," he remarked in a tone of profound indifference, as he lounged nearer. "Can't think what it's all for. Just listen."

"Yes; I wish they would stop."

"Don't know what's it's all about. Something or other—going on. I shouldn't wonder—if they're quarrelling."

That odd little catch again.

"Feel very bad this evening, Roy?"

The question took Roy by surprise, and a lump in his throat prevented an immediate reply.

Denham understood.

"Never mind," he said. "It's the same with all of us, you know. And there's one comfort for you—that Molly wants you at least as much as you want her. Some people would give a good deal for that certainty."

Roy tried to explain matters away.

"I didn't say——"

"My dear boy, there's no need for you to say anything; I know well enough. Don't you see?"

Denham's chair shook as Roy leant against it, but no further sound came. He fought his battle courageously, and Denham waited.

"We shall all feel better to-morrow," the latter presently remarked. "It's a strange place, and things look uncomfortable to-night—can't well do otherwise. Suppose you and I have a game of chess. Better than to sit brooding over what can't be cured. My little travelling set is somewhere about, I believe."

"O yes." Roy's voice told of instant relief. "You gave it to me to take care of. Don't you mind a game, really? I should like that. Will you give me your queen?"

"No; not to-day. I'm not at my best. We'll try on even terms. Get out the pieces."

Roy obeyed with alacrity, and whatever the move meant to Denham, it served to lift Roy out of his unwonted fit of misery. He was soon deeply absorbed in the mimic fight, and for once he found himself on the way to win an easy victory. Roy became exultant—till the honour and glory of success were impaired by the casual discovery that Ivor could not tell a knight from a bishop except by feeling. Roy stared wonderingly into the spare bronzed face.

"Why, Den!"

"All right; this is my bishop."

"I say, you didn't take that for a knight?"

"I believe I was under the delusion for a moment."

"But why? There, now it's your turn. Oh, I say!—you're going to move my king."

Denham laughed slightly.

"I am rather a futile opponent, seemingly. Never mind. Now it is your turn."

"What's the matter? Can't you see?"

"Not well; just a headache. Go on; you'll soon end the game at this rate."

Roy showed himself capable of heroism. Though he had never yet beaten Denham in full fight, without having some of his adversary's best pieces presented to him, though the desire of his heart was for a victory, and though he was on the high road to administering checkmate, one more glance decided him. He swept his arm over the board.

Denham half smiled, and made no protest.

"You are a kind fellow," he said, as he went back to his former retreat; and Roy dropped on the floor to pick up the scattered pieces.

"Why didn't you tell me? You'd no business to play. Can't I do anything for you?"

"Yes, if you don't mind"—after a moment's racking of his brain to think of anything that might keep the boy occupied. "I wish you would unpack my valise—just the things that I shall want to-night."

Roy was delighted and went off at full speed. In the passage he found himself face to face with Lucille, and all but rushed into her arms. Lucille drew back.

"I say! Oh, I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. I'm going to unpack for Den. He's just floored; can't even play chess. It's all this horrid beastly bother, having to come to Verdun, you know. He never used to be like that. Den was always up to anything. What have you got there?" as she held up one hand. "A letter!"

"It is medicine for Monsieur le Capitaine—from England," Lucille said, with a look of heartfelt pleasure.

"It really is from England! Won't he be glad? Where did you get it from? You shall give it to him yourself. Yes; I declare you shall."

Roy flung open the salon door, and announced, "Here's Mademoiselle de St. Roques. Den, she's got something for you! Guess what it is. Come in, Mademoiselle."

Ivor stood up, not grateful to Roy at this moment.

"Pray take a seat," he urged.

"It's a letter—a letter—a letter from England," cried the boy.

"You have brought this from the post?" asked Denham, as he received from her hand a folded and sealed packet.

"Non, it is not that. The letter arrives from M. de Bertrand. It was send to him from England under cover, and he waited till he should learn your address and have opportunity to send it with safety. When I wrote to him that you all were ordered to Verdun, then he sent the letter to me by one travelling this way. It is but now arrived. I am glad!" Lucille added, under her breath.

Denham bent nearer to the candle, trying with drawn brows to make out the handwriting. As he did so, a curious light crept over his face. Lucille thought she could read its meaning.

"You are very good, mademoiselle. I am much indebted to you and to M. de Bertrand," he said.

"Den, I do believe it's Polly's writing!" exclaimed Roy.

Denham glanced towards him.

"Yes; it is from Polly."

(To be continued.)