“Paul! Paul!” Marguerite cried in warning.
“There’s no one to see,” he returned, with a savage laugh. “One shell in the Souk-Ben-Safi and they’re shivering in their cellars. Come, let us go down!”
For an hour the shells screeched above the roof, and Paul, as he cleaned his carbine, whistled joyously. He raised his head from his task to see Marguerite, very white in the face, clinging to her chair with clenched hands, and trying in vain to whistle too.
“I am a brute,” he cried, in compunction. “They won’t touch this house, Marguerite! It’s too near the Karouein Mosque. The French are going to stay in Morocco. They’ll not touch the Karouein Mosque. There’s no spot in Fez safer from our guns.”
Marguerite professed herself reassured, but it did occur to her that gunners and even guns might make occasionally a mistake, and she drew a very long breath of relief when the bombardment ceased.
Paul Ravenel, however, fell into a restless mood, pacing the court, and now and again coming to a stop in front of Marguerite with some word upon his lips, which, after all, he did not speak. Marguerite guessed it, and after a little struggle made herself his interpreter.
“The bombardment’s over. It will keep Fez quiet for awhile. Even if that wisp of smoke was seen, no crowd will come here for an explanation—yet, at all events. Why don’t you go outside into the town and get the news?”
The eager light in his eyes told her clearly that she had interpreted him aright. But Paul, not knowing the reason which had prompted her, sought for another. He looked at Marguerite warily.
“I gave you back your pistol,” he said.
“And I promised not to use it,” she replied.