With a shrill cry of rage, she stamped her foot on the ground. This great iceberg of a man was a devil! He had come for her lover. He would take Jacque away to be shot. With an involuntary instinct of dismay, she glanced at the barn some little distance away; then, fearful that he had read her meaning, she forced a smile with her lips.
Without a word, he put her gently aside and started for the barn. He had gone ten steps before she moved, when he heard her hurried breathing and her hands were on his arm.
"Monsieur" she cried—"monsieur le major—Jacque—Jacque keel you!" She spoke in broken English, remembering one of Des Rosiers's stories of his misdeeds. Releasing her fingers, he reached the barn in a few short paces. Opening the door, he cautiously entered and tried to accustom himself to the semi-darkness—and saw the barrel of a rifle in the loft slowly aligning itself in his direction.
"Des Rosiers!" His voice rang out like a pistol-shot. "It is I—your officer!"
There was no sound for almost a full minute, then the rifle was withdrawn, and the unshaved, disheveled French-Canadian stood before him.
"Why you come?" he said brokenly. "I can no shoot my officier. Why you come, eh?"
"Because you will go back with me, Des Rosiers."
The deserter's eyes filled with tears. "By Gar!" he said, "it is not, what you say, play fair. I say I shoot who come, and Jacque Des Rosiers, he is no afraid. But you—my boss—mais non! Maybe I go back with you and maybe they shoot me, yes?"
"You have deserted, and the punishment is—well, you know as well as I. If you come with me now there is a small chance of mercy."
The man's eyes flashed. "I no ask for mercy," he cried. "I, Jacque Des Rosiers want mercy? Pouf! I laugh. They tell me I no see Simunde again, when I do nottings wrong. Très bien—I say sometings about it too. I go, I stay—mêm' chose; I am shot. Good! I stay with Simunde."