There you'll meet high officers and you'll have to make more statements, because Metz, as you know, is one of the most powerful fortresses in Europe." "I know; why shouldn't I, a Lorrainer, know?
But my passport will take me in.

Meanwhile, I thank you, Otto Scheller, for the kindness you're showing me." "All right, jump in, and off we go." It was a provision wagon, drawn by stout Percherons, which John felt sure had been bred in France, and which he also felt sure had never been paid for by German money.

The wagon was empty now, evidently having delivered its burden nearer the battle lines, and John found a comfortable seat beside the sergeant, while a stout _Pickelhaube_ drove.
"Looks like peace, Castel," said the sergeant, waving his hand at the landscape, "but things are not always what they seem." "How so ?" "See the hills across there.

The French hold part of them, and often the artillery goes boom! boom! They threaten an attack on Metz.

We shall hear the cannon before long." John looked long at the hills, high, white and silent, but presently they began to groan and mutter as Scheller had predicted they would.
Flashes of flame appeared and giant shells were emptied like gusts of lava from a volcano.