As if in answer to prayer, a gunner had come out of the earth.  Sufficient to the need was the fact.  It was not for Dellarme to ask questions of a prize-medallist graduate of the school for officers in a blue blouse and crownless straw hat.  His expert survey assured him that before another rush the enemy had certain preparations to make.  He might give his fighting smile a recess and permit himself a few minutes’ relaxation.  Looking around to ascertain what damage had been done to the house and grounds, he became aware of Marta’s presence for the first time.

“Miss Galland, you—­you weren’t there during the fighting?” he cried as he ran toward her.

“Yes,” she said rather faintly.

“If I had known that I should have been scared to death!”

“But I was safe behind the pillar,” she explained.  “Your company did its work splendidly,” she added, looking at him with eyes dull and wondering.

“Do you think so?  They are splendid, my men!  They make one try to be worthy of them.  Thank you!” he said, blushing with pleasure.  “But, Miss Galland, please—­there’s no firing now, but any minute——.”

“Yes?”

He did not attempt masculine firmness this time, only boyish pleading and a sort of younger-brother camaraderie.

“Miss Galland, you’re such a good soldier—­please—­and I’m sure you have not had your breakfast, and all good soldiers never neglect their rations, not at the beginning of a war!  Miss Galland, please—.”  Yes, as he meant it, please be a good fellow.

She could not resist smiling at the charming manner of his plea.  She felt weak and strange—­a little dizzy.  Besides, her mother’s voice now came from the doorway and then her mother’s hand was pressing her arm.

“Marta, if you remain out here, I shall!” announced Mrs. Galland.

“I was just coming in,” said Marta.

Dellarme, his cap held before him in the jaunty fashion of officers, bowed, his face beaming his happiness at her decision.

As they entered the dining-room Marta saw that the shell which had entered the window had burst just over the heavy mahogany table and a fragment of the jacket had cut a long scar in the rich fibre.  She paused, her breath coming and going hotly.  She felt the smarting pain of a file drawn over the skin.  The table was very old; for generations it had been a family treasure.  As a child she had loved its polished surface and revered its massive solidity.

“Oh!  Oh!  Somebody ought to be made to pay for such wickedness!” she exclaimed wrathfully.

“It will plane down and it is nothing we could help, Marta,” said Mrs. Galland.  “Fortunately, all the portraits were out of the room.”

“Mother, you—­you are just a little too philosophical!” complained Marta.

“Come!” Mrs. Galland slipped her hand into Marta’s.  “Two women can’t fight both armies.  Come!  I prescribe hot coffee It is waiting; and, do you know, I find a meal in the kitchen very cosey.”