Berthine replied: "But I am all alone with mother, this evening."
The soldier, who seemed a good sort of fellow, answered: "That makes no difference. I shall not do any harm; but you must give us something to eat. We are faint and tired to death."
The keeper's wife stepped back.
"Come in," said she.
They came in, powdered with snow and with a sort of mossy cream on their helmets that made them look like meringues. They seemed tired, worn out.
The young woman pointed to the wooden benches on each side of the big table.
"Sit down," said she, "and I'll make you some soup. You do look quite knocked up."
Then she bolted the door again.
She poured some more water into her saucepan, threw in more butter and potatoes; then, unhooking a piece of bacon that hung in the chimney, she cut off half, and added that also to the stew. The eyes of the six men followed her every movement with an air of awakened hunger. They had set their guns and helmets in a corner, and sat waiting on their benches, like well-behaved school children. The mother had begun to spin again, but she threw terrified glances at the invading soldiers. There was no sound except the slight purring of the wheel, the crackle of the fire, and the bubbling of the water as it grew hot.
But all at once a strange noise made them all start—something like a horse breathing at the door, the breathing of an animal, deep and snorting.