The Guns of Europe

The Guns of Europe
By Joseph A. Altsheler
AUTHOR OF HORSEMEN OF THE PLAINS, THE LAST OF THE
CHIEFS, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES WRENN
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America

FOREWORD
"The Guns of Europe" is the first of three connected romances, of
which "The Forest of Swords" and "The Hosts of the Air" are to be
respectively the second and third, dealing with the world war in
Europe.
It was the singular fortune of the author to be present at the beginning
of this, the most gigantic struggle in the history of our globe. He was in
Vienna the day Austria-Hungary declared war upon Servia, thus setting
the torch that lighted the general conflagration. Returning westward, he
reached Munich the day Germany declared war upon Russia. He
remained in Germany nearly a month, having witnessed in turn the
Austrian and German mobilizations, and then arrived in England in
time to see the gathering of the British Empire's armed hosts.

He was also, upon his return, in Quebec when the greatest colony of the
British was rallying to their support. Such an experience at such an
extraordinary crisis makes ineffaceable impressions, and through his
characters, the author has striven his best to reproduce them in these
three romances.

CONTENTS
I. THE SISTINE MADONNA
II. THE THUNDERBOLT
III. THE REFUGE
IV. THE THRILLING ESCAPE
V. THE FIGHT IN THE BLUE
VI. ABOVE THE STORM
VII. THE ZEPPELIN
VIII. THE FRENCH DEFENSE
IX. THE RIDE OF THREE
X. THE DRAGONS OF THE AIR
XI. THE ARMORED CAR
XII. THE ABANDONED CHATEAU
XIII. ON THE ROOF
XIV. THE GERMAN HOST
XV. THE GIANT GUN

THE GUNS OF EUROPE
CHAPTER I
THE SISTINE MADONNA
JOHN turned a little to the left, going nearer to the window, where he
could gain a better view of the Madonna, which he had heard so often
was the most famous picture in the world. He was no technical judge of
painting he was far too young for such knowledge but he always
considered the effect of the whole upon himself, and he was satisfied
with that method, feeling perhaps that he gained more from it than if he
had been able to tear the masterwork to pieces, merely in order to see
how Raphael had made it.
"Note well, John, that this is the Sistine Madonna," began William
Anson in his didactic, tutorial tone. "Observe the wonderful expression
upon the face of the Holy Mother. Look now at the cherubs gazing up
into the blue vault, in which the Madonna like an angel is poised.
Behold the sublime artist's mastery of every detail. There are those who
hold that the Madonna della Sedia at Florence is its equal in beauty and
greatness, but I do not agree with them. To me the Sistine Madonna is
always first. Centuries ago, even, its full worth was appreciated. It
brought a great price at "
The rest of his speech trailed off into nothingness. John had impatiently
moved further away, and had deliberately closed his ear also to any
dying sounds of oratory that might reach him. He had his own method
of seeing the wonders of the Old World. He was interested or he was
not. It was to him a state of mind, atmospheric in a way. He liked to
breathe it in, and the rattle of a guide or tutor's lecture nearly always
broke the spell.
Anxious that Mr. Anson should not have any fur ther chance to mar his
pleasure he moved yet closer to the great window from which came
nearly all the light that fell upon the Sistine Madonna. There he stood

almost in the center of the beams and gazed upon the illumined face,
which spoke only of peace upon earth and good will. He was moved
deeply, although there was no sign of it in his quiet eyes. He did not
object to emotion and to its vivid expression in others, but his shy
nature, feeling the need of a defensive armor, rejected it for himself.
It was a brighter day than the changeful climate of Dresden and the
valley of the Elbe usually offered. The sunshine came in a great golden
bar through the window and glowed over the wonderful painting which
had stood the test of time and the critics. He had liked the good, gray
city sitting beside its fine river. It had seemed friendly and kind to him,
having in it the quality of home, something almost American in its
simplicity and lack of caste.
They had arrived as soon as the doors were opened, and but few people
were yet in the room. John cartie from his mood of exaltation and
glanced at the others,