“Yes, she is,” barked the man. “She’s that, sure enough.”
“Not seen her for a long time, haven’t ye?”
“Sixteen years come March month.”
“Hm!”
And the sergeant laconically resumed his smoking.
The landlady was coming back, followed by the three young soldiers, who entered rather sheepishly, in trousers and shirt and stocking-feet. The woman stood histrionically at the end of the bar, and exclaimed:
“That man refuses to leave the house, claims he’s stopping the night here. You know very well I have no bed, don’t you? And this house doesn’t accommodate travellers. Yet he’s going to stop in spite of all! But not while I’ve a drop of blood in my body, that I declare with my dying breath. And not if you men are worth the name of men, and will help a woman as has no one to help her.”
Her eyes sparkled, her face was flushed pink. She was drawn up like an Amazon.
The young soldiers did not quite know what to do. They looked at the man, they looked at the sergeant, one of them looked down and fastened his braces on the second button.
“What say, sergeant?” asked one whose face twinkled for a little devilment.