"Who goes there?" asked a gruff, military voice.
"I--an Englishwoman--Mrs. Burton--let me in."
The gruff voice uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and there sounded the dull thud of a rifle being grounded. Immediately afterward she heard a light footstep on the veranda of the house, and her husband's voice, surprised and incredulous.
"Brenda!"
"Oh, Harold, Harold, it is I! Let me in--let me in!"
The gate in the wall was pushed open and several privates emerged. Someone carrying a lantern swung it so that the light fell on her pale and haggard face. Then, with a low cry of astonishment, her husband picked her up in his arms and carried her into the house.
"Good God! Brenda, what are you doing--how did you come here?"
She could not speak--she was sobbing on his breast. He placed her gently on the hard sofa. Then she found her voice. But she could think of nothing--say nothing. She could only rejoice in having found him.
"Oh, Harold, Harold! Thank God, I have been led to you!"
"My poor girl, you are cold and wet and exhausted. Here, drink this brandy, and I'll get something cooked for you. Don't exhaust yourself more by trying to explain. That will come after."