It was midnight when the alarm bell sounded.
Lauria had been sitting in the parlor, with no light but that of the fire, a hot drink in her hand, lost in turbulent thoughts.
Her thoughts twisted slightly. Had she made it plain to Cholli that only young men would be welcome?
But how could she toss aside everything in which she had believed for so long, on an impulse? Would she not redeem herself by shooting down any invader?
Shame was upon her now, for having told Cholli what she did. It was not the perverse shame that had run hot in her that night when she had fought Poll and wanted to be defeated, but the shame of having done what she scorned other women for doing.
But Lauria was lonely now, and the fire was not as warm as it once had been. How many years had it been—ten? fifteen?—since the last young man had won her outer wall, only to fall beneath her bullets in the moon-shadows?
Could she turn now to the ways of other women, to dissemble, to shoot wide of the mark and put up a false defense? Could she now betray the weapons that had served her so well and true?
Or would there be a thirteenth grave in the little cemetery on the morrow?
The bell chattered nervously.