The American soldiers entered the cottage. Between her anger at them and her fear for the safety of her chickens, the old woman was in a pitiful state, indeed. Ruth looked at M. Lafrane.
"Oh, can we not do anything for her?" she asked.
"Military law knows no change—the laws of the Medes and Persians," he said grimly. "She must go, of course——"
Suddenly he sat up more stiffly beside the American girl and his hand went to his cap in salute. He even rose, and, before Ruth looked around and spied the occasion for this, she knew it must foretell the approach of an officer of importance.
Coming along the road (he had been sheltered from her gaze before by the laden wagon) was a French officer in a very brilliant uniform. Ruth gasped aloud; she knew him at a glance.
It was Major Henri Marchand, in the full panoply of a dress uniform, although he was on foot. He acknowledged M. Lafrane's salute carelessly and did not see the girl at all. He walked directly into the yard surrounding the cottage. The corporal of the American squad was saying:
"I am sorry for you, ma mère. But we cannot wait now. You should have been ready for us. You have had forty-eight hours' notice."
The old countrywoman was quite enraged. She began to vilify the Americans most abominably. Ruth suddenly heard her say that the Abelards had been rooted here for generations. She refused to go for all the soldiers in the world!
Then she shrieked again as she saw the men bringing out her best bed. Major Marchand took a hand in the matter.
"Tante," he said quietly, "I am sorry for you. But these men are in the right. The high authorities have said you must go. All your neighbors are going. It is for la patrie. These are bitter times and we must all make sacrifices. Come, now, you must depart."