It was Martha. She had a shawl over her head and shoulders, and she was breathing quickly, with parted lips.
Jefferson noiselessly dropped his revolver into his pocket again.
With swift, sure movements, the girl began to set the machinery of the mill in motion. By glancing over to the window, Jefferson could see the sails move slowly—very, very slowly. Martha fumbled for a paper in her bosom, and, drawing it forth, scrutinised it tensely. Then she set the machinery in motion again. She had her back to him. Jefferson rose stealthily and took a step towards her. A board creaked and, starting nervously, the girl looked round.
For a moment the two gazed at each other in dead silence.
“Martha,” said Jefferson, “Martha!”
There was a mixture of rage and reproach in his voice. Even as he spoke they heard the whine of shells overhead, and then four dull explosions.
“Your work,” cried Jefferson thickly, taking a stride forward and seizing the speechless woman by the arm.
Martha looked at him with a kind of dull terror in her eyes, with utter hopelessness, and the man paused a second. He had not known he cared for her so much. Then, in a flash, he pictured the horrors for which this woman, a mere common spy, was responsible.
He made to grasp her more firmly, but she twisted herself from his hold. Darting to the device which freed the mill-sails, she wrenched at it madly. The sails caught in the breeze, and began to circle round, swiftly and more swiftly, until the old wooden building shook with the vibration.