An aeroplane following the dirigible as a screen, hoping to get home with information if the dirigible were lost, had escaped the sharpshooters in the church tower by flying around the town.  However, it ran within range of the automatic and the sharpshooters on top of the castle tower.  They failed of the bull’s-eye, but their bullets, rimming the target, crippling the motor, and cutting braces, brought the crumpling wings about the helpless pilot.  The watching gunners uttered “Ahs!” of horror and triumph as they saw him fall, gliding this way and that, in the agony of slow descent.

“Come, now!” called the artillery commander.  “We are wasting precious time.”

Entering the grounds of the Galland house, Marta had to pass to one side of the path, now blocked by army wagons and engineers’ materials and tools.  Soldiers carrying sand-bags were taking the shortest cut, trampling the flowers on their way.

“Do you know whose property this is?” she demanded in a burst of anger.

“Ours—­the nation’s!” answered one, perspiring freely at his work.  “Sorry!” he added on second thought.

Already parts of the first terrace were shoulder-high with sand-bags and one automatic had been set in place, Marta observed as she turned to the veranda.  There her mother sat in her favorite chair, hands relaxed as they rested on its arms, while she looked out over the valley in the supertranquillity that comes to some women under a strain—­as soldiers who have been on sieges can tell you—­that some psychologists interpret one way and some another, none knowing even their own wives.

“Marta, did any of the children come?” Mrs. Galland asked in her usual pleasant tone.  So far as she was concerned, the activity on the terrace did not exist.  She seemed oblivious of the fact of war.

“Yes, seven.”

“And did you hold your session?”

“Yes.”

Marta’s monosyllables absently answering the questions were expressive of her wonder at her mother.  Most girls do not know their mothers much better than psychologists know their wives.

“I am glad of that, Marta.  I am glad you went and sorry that I opposed your going, because, Marta, whatever happens one should go regularly about what he considers his duty,” said Mrs. Galland.  “They have been as considerate as they could, evidently by Colonel Lanstron’s orders,” she proceeded, nodding toward the industrious engineers.  “And they’ve packed all the paintings and works of art and put them in the cellar, where they will be safe.”

The captain of engineers in command, seeing Marta, hurried toward her.

“Miss Galland, isn’t it?” he asked.  “I have been waiting for you.  I—­I—­well, I found that I could not make the situation clear to your mother.”

“He thinks me in my second childhood or out of my head,” Mrs. Galland explained with a shade of tartness.  “And he has been so polite in trying to conceal his opinion, too,” she added with a comprehending smile.