mirror began to sway and the tarnished gilt sconces to quiver in their sockets.
“I wish you were not in Morsbronn,” I said.
“I feel safer here in my own house than I should at La Trappe,” she replied.
She was probably thinking of the dead Uhlan and of poor Bazard; perhaps of the wretched exposure of Buckhurst – the man she had trusted and who had proved to be a swindler, and a murderous one at that.
Suddenly a shell fell into the court-yard opposite, bursting immediately in a cloud of gravel which rained against our turret like hail.
Stunned for an instant, the Countess stood there motionless, her face turned towards the window. I struggled to sit upright.
She looked calmly at me; the color came back into her face, and in spite of my remonstrance she walked to the window, closed the heavy outside shutters and the blinds. As she was fastening them I heard the whizzing quaver of another shell, the racket of its explosion, the crash of plaster.
“Where is the safest place for us to stay?” she asked. Her voice was perfectly steady.
“In the cellar. I beg you to go at once.”
Bang! a shell blew up in a shower of slates and knocked a chimney into a heap of bricks.
“Do you insist on staying by that loop-hole?” she asked, without a quiver in her voice.
“Yes, I do,” said I. “Will you go to the cellar?”
“No,” she said, shortly.
I saw her walk toward the rear of the room, hesitate, sink down by the edge of the bed and lay her face in the pillow.
Two shells burst with deafening reports in the street; the young Countess covered her face with both hands. Shell after shell came howling, whistling, whizzing into the village; the two hussars had disappeared, but a company of Turcos came up on a run and began to dig a trench across the street a hundred yards west of our turret.
How they made the picks and shovels fly! Shells tore through the air over them, bursting on impact with roof and chimney; the Turcos tucked up their blue sleeves, spat on their hands, and dug away like terriers, while their officers, smoking the eternal cigarette, coolly examined the distant landscape through their field-glasses.
Shells rained fast on Morsbronn; nearer and nearer bellowed the guns; the plaster ceiling above my head cracked and fell in thin flakes, filling the room with an acrid, smarting dust. Again and again metal fragments from shells rang out on the heavy walls of our turret; a roof opposite sank in; flames flickered up through clouds of dust; a heavy yellow smoke, swarming with sparks, rolled past my window.
Down the street a dull sound grew into a steady roar; the Turcos dropped pick and shovel and seized their rifles.
“Garde! Garde à vous!” rang their startled bugles; the tumult increased to a swelling uproar, shouting, cheering, the crash of shutters and of glass, and —
“The Prussians!” bellowed the captain. “Turcos – charge!”
His voice was lost; a yelling mass of soldiery burst into view; spiked helmets and bayonets glittering through the smoke, the Turcos were whirled about like brilliant butterflies in a tornado; the fusillade swelled to a stupefying din, exploding in one terrible crash; and, wrapped in lightning, the Prussian onset passed.
From the stairs below came the sound of a voiceless struggle, the trample and panting and clicking of steel, till of a sudden a voice burst out into a dreadful screaming. A shot followed – silence – another shot – then the stairs outside shook under the rush of mounting men.
As the door burst open I felt a touch on my arm; the Countess de Vassart stood erect and pale, one slender, protecting hand resting lightly on my shoulder; a lieutenant of Prussian infantry confronted us; straight, heavy sword drawn, rigid, uncompromising, in his faultless gray-and-black uniform, with its tight, silver waist-sash.
“I do not have you thrown into the street,” he said to me, in excellent French, “because there has been no firing from the windows in this village. Otherwise – other measures. Be at ease, madame, I shall not harm your invalid.”
He glanced at me out of his near-sighted eyes, dropped the point of his sword to the stone floor, and slowly caressed his small, blond mustache.
“How many troops passed through here yesterday morning?” he asked.
I was silent.
“There was artillery, was there not?”
I only looked at him.
“Do you hear?” he repeated, sharply. “You are a prisoner, and I am questioning you.”
“You have that useless privilege,” I observed.
“If you are insolent I will have you shot!” he retorted, staring haughtily at me.
I glanced out of the window.
There was a pause; the hand of the Countess de Vassart trembled on my shoulder.
Under the window strident Prussian bugles were blowing a harsh summons; the young officer stepped to the loop-hole and looked out, then hastily removed his helmet and thrust his blond head through the smoky aperture. “March those prisoners in below!” he shouted down.
Then he withdrew his head, put on his polished helmet of black leather, faced with the glittering Prussian eagle, and tightened the gold-scaled cheek-guard.
A moment later came a trample of feet on the landing outside, the door was flung open, and three prisoners were brutally pushed into the room.
I tried to turn and look at them; they stood in the dusk near the bed, but I could only make out that one was a Turco, his jacket in rags, his canvas breeches covered with mud.
Again the lieutenant came to the loop-hole and glanced out, then shook his head, motioning the soldiers back.
“It is too high and the arc of fire too limited,” he said, shortly. “Detail four men to hold the stairs, ten men and a sergeant in the room below, and you’d better take your prisoners down there. Bayonet that Turco tiger if he shows his teeth again. March!”
As the prisoners filed out I turned once more and thought I recognized Salah Ben-Ahmed in the dishevelled Turco, but could not be certain, so disfigured and tattered the soldier appeared.
“Here, you hussar prisoner!” cried the lieutenant, pointing at me with his white-gloved finger, “turn your head and busy yourself with what concerns you. And you, madame,” he added, pompously, “see that you give us no trouble and stay in this room until you have permission to leave.”
“Are – are you speaking to me, monsieur?” asked the Countess, amazed. Then she rose, exasperated.
“Your insolence disgraces your uniform,” she said. “Go to your French prisoners and learn the rudiments of courtesy!”
The officer reddened to his colorless eyebrows; his little, near-sighted eyes became stupid and fixed; he smoothed the blond down on his upper lip with hesitating fingers.
Suddenly he turned and marched out, slamming the door violently behind him.
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