"That is my affair," returned his leader. "It is enough that I did ride to warn you; you all know why I was too late. If that is all you wish to say to me, you can go. Keep the pickets out in case of a sudden attack!"
"If that happens, I dare say we shall find that someone knew of that also beforehand," muttered Magloire darkly.
"Then you will remember that I warned you of that, too," retorted Aymar. "I advise you to profit by the warning." And, turning on his heel, he left him.
Once inside the hut again he felt very tired. Two nights without sleep, three days of the most harassing remorse and strain, and now a passage of arms with his only efficient subordinate! But that Magloire, in spite of his words, had no suspicion of him he was certain. It was jealousy and wounded vanity which were driving him. He would have to give him his congé directly it was possible. . . .
(7)
About two o'clock he was sitting at the rough table trying to work out a map from memory (all his effects having been lost at the bridge) when he heard something like an altercation at the door. The next moment it opened to admit a man who shut it behind him and stood facing him without a word—a lean, tallish man of about thirty-five, hard-featured and blue-eyed, and bareheaded save for a bandage round his forehead.
Aymar stared at him, amazed almost beyond speech.
"Good God! De Fresne! Then you were not——"
"I escaped—a careless sentry. No, not killed, if that is what you mean. Did you think I was?"
Aymar's head swam for a moment. He was unfeignedly glad, but with de Fresne he would probably have to have the matter out. He sprang up, holding out his hand.