"You can't come to terms, father?" she said.
"We can't," and there was an ominous sparkle in Coulthurst's eyes. "I'm not sure that I wish to now. In fact, I've borne quite as much as I'm willing to put up with from both of them, and there's some reason, after all, in Esmond's plan. He'll give them another week, and then we'll cut our way in."
"It's not your affair," and Grace started visibly. "You are the Gold Commissioner."
Coulthurst smiled. "I am also entitled to the rank of major, and that, after all, means a good deal."
Grace mastered her apprehension, for she realized the major's point of view and indeed concurred with it.
"There is no other way than the one you are thinking of?" she asked.
"There are two," said Coulthurst drily. "We can sit still and starve, or march out and leave the valley in the possession of the miners while we try to break through the snow. Neither of them, however, commends itself to Esmond or me."
"Of course!" said Grace, with a little flush in her face, which, however, faded suddenly. "But suppose one or two of the troopers were killed while you forced the barricade?"
"Then," said Coulthurst, "our friends Ingleby and Sewell would certainly be hung."
The major's terseness was more convincing than a great deal of argument, and Grace saw what she must do. The pride of station was strong in her, so strong, in fact, that she would never have come down to Ingleby's level. It was only because he had shown that he could force his way to hers—at least, as it was likely to be regarded in that country—that she had listened to him. When the grapple became imminent that pride alone would have driven her to take part with constituted authority instead of what she considered the democratic rabble. Then there was the peril to her father and to Ingleby. He must be saved—against himself, if it should be necessary.