John was now conscious how strongly he had projected himself into the
life of the French. He was an American for generations back and his
blood by descent was British. He had been among the Germans and he liked
them personally, he had served already with the English, and their point
of view was more nearly like the American than any other. But he was
here with the French and he felt for them the deepest sympathy of all.
He was conscious of a tie like that of blood brotherhood.
He knew it was due to the old and yet unpaid help France had given to
his own country, and above all to the conviction that France, minding
her own business, had been set upon by a greater power, with intent to
crush and destroy. France was attacked by a dragon, and the old similes
of mythology floated through his mind, but, oftenest, that of Andromeda
chained to the rock. And the figure that typified France always had the
golden hair and dark blue eyes of slim, young Julie Lannes.
They advanced several hours almost in silence, as far as talk was
concerned, but two hundred thousand men marching made a deep and steady
murmur. General Vaugirard kept well in front of his staff, riding,
despite his immense bulk, like a Comanche, and occasionally putting his
glasses to those fiery little red eyes. At length he turned and beckoned
to John, who promptly drew up to his side.
"You speak good French?" he said in his native tongue.
"Yes, sir," replied John promptly.
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