"What is that?" said a man sitting up in an easy-chair and looking
towards a window near the Boulevard St. Germain.

The woman opposite stretched herself a little wearily. "Some drunken
soldier with a bugle. . . . Good gracious, it is one o'clock and we are
not in bed!"

The man had risen from his chair and flung the window open.

"Listen! ... They were to blow the bugles when the Zeppelins came...
Perhaps..."

There were other noises rising from the streets of Paris. Whistles
were blowing, very faintly, in far places. Firemen's bells were ringing,
persistently.

"L'alerte!" said the man. "The Zeppelins are coming!"

The lamp at the street corner was suddenly extinguished, leaving
absolute darkness.

"Fermez vos rideaux!" shouted a hoarse voice.

Footsteps went hurriedly down the pavement and then were silent.

"It is nothing!" said the woman; "a false alarm!" "Listen!"

Paris was very quiet now. The bugle-notes were as faint as far-off
bells against the wind. But there was no wind, and the air was still. It