"Infantry are slipping into the ravine, mon colonel!"
The colonel, stern, impassive, ordered him to report when the movement ceased.
The long trench filled with crouching riflemen lay in a hush of intense expectancy. There was scarce a movement save the quick, involuntary jerks of nerves at strain. The old woman's eyes began to wander, puzzled, seeking comprehension. The wild rush forward she had imagined, would it never come? She waited, breathless, for the inspiring command of the colonel that should wake the tumultuous Hurrah! The watching officer reported:
"Movement has ceased, mon colonel. About two hundred men."
The colonel drew his watch from his pocket, glanced at the dial. Beyond that he made no movement. The old woman's eyes were fixed upon him. Suddenly she noticed that he wore neither sword nor revolver. In a flash she understood. She sprang up like a madwoman, crying at the top of her voice.
"Soldiers! To the rescue! The Boches are taking away my mistress! Now! Save her! Your colonel—her lover—abandons her! Abandons her! Cowards! Cowards! Do you want an old woman to show you the way?"
She leaped in a frenzy upon the fire-step, tearing aside the soldiers to make way for her with cat-like hands. There was a stir along the trench. The soldiers knew her, knew her mistress, their generous hostess. There was a murmur. The colonel stood like a statue carved in stone. His face was that of an ascetic at the supreme moment. In his eyes was the glow of a mystic who beholds a vision.
He turned to the old woman.
"Be quiet!" he commanded. His eyes rather than his voice quelled her. She sank in a passion of hysterical weeping to the floor of the trench. He glanced at his watch again, replaced it, waited. Age-long minutes passed. He turned to the artillery officer.
"Now!" he said. "But be careful! As near to the château as possible without touching it."