Speed took them. I followed him, creeping back to the window, where we entered in time to avoid discovery by a wretch who had succeeded in mounting the wall, torch in hand.
One or two soldiers climbed over and dropped into the garden, prowling around, prodding the bushes with their bayonets, even coming to press their dirty faces and hands against our window.
“They’re all here!” sang out one. “It was an owl, I tell you!” And he menaced us with his rifle in pantomime and retired, calling his companions to follow.
“Where is Jacqueline?” asked the Countess, looking anxiously at the little blue skirt on Speed’s knees. “Have they harmed that child?”
I told her.
A beautiful light grew in her eyes as she listened. “Did I not warn you that we Bretons know how to die?” she said.
I looked dully at Speed, who sat by the window, brooding over the little woollen skirt on his knees, stroking it, touching the torn hem, and at last folding it with unaccustomed and shaky hands.
There were noises outside our door, loud voices, hammering, the sound of furniture being dragged over stone floors, and I scarcely noticed it when our door was opened again.
Then somebody called out our names; a file of half-drunken soldiers grounded arms in the passageway 374 with a bang that brought us to our feet, as Mornac, flushed with wine, entered unsteadily, drawn sword in hand.
“I’m damned if I stay here any longer,” he broke out, angrily. “I’ll see whether my rascals can’t shoot straight by torch-light. Here, you! Scarlett, I mean! And you, Speed; and you, too, madame; patter your prayers, for you’ll get no priest. Lieutenant, withdraw the guard at the wall. Here, captain, march the battalion back to Paradise and take the servants!”