“That is all,” she exclaimed with a shudder—­“all my eavesdropping, all my breach of confidence!  If—­if it—­” and her voice trembled with the intensity of the one purpose that was shining with the light of truth through the murk of her deception—­“it will only help to end the slaughter!” She held out her hand convulsively in parting as if she would leave the rest with him.

“I think it will,” he said soberly.  “I think it will prove that you have done a great service,” he repeated as he caught both her hands, which were cold from her ordeal.  His own were warm with the strong beating of his heart stirred by the promise of what he had just heard.  But he did not prolong the grasp.  He was as eager to be away to his work as she to be alone.  “I think it will.  You will know in the morning,” he added.

His steps were sturdier than ever in the power of five against three as he started back to the house.  When he reached the veranda, Bouchard, the saturnine chief of intelligence, appeared in the doorway of the dining-room:  or, rather, reappeared, for he had been standing there throughout the interview of Westerling and Marta, whose heads were just visible, above the terrace wall, to his hawk eyes.

“A little promenade in the open and my mind made up,” said Westerling, clapping Bouchard on the shoulder.

“Something about an attack to-night?” asked Bouchard.

“You guess right.  Call the others.”

Five minutes later he was seated at the head of the dining-room table with his chiefs around him waiting for their chairman to speak.  He asked some categorical questions almost perfunctorily, and the answer to each was, “Ready!” with, in some instances, a qualification—­the qualification made by regimental and brigade commanders that, though they could take the position in front of them, the cost would be heavy.  Yes, all were willing and ready for the first general assault of the war, but they wanted to state the costs as a matter of professional self-defence.

Westerling could pose when it served his purpose.  Now he rose and, going to one of the wall maps, indicated a point with his forefinger.

“If we get that we have the most vital position, haven’t we?”

Some uttered a word of assent; some only nodded.  A glance or two of curiosity was exchanged.  Why should the chief of staff ask so elementary a question?  Westerling was not unconscious of the glances or of their meaning.  They gave dramatic value to his next remark.

“We are going to mass for our main attack in front at Bordir!”

“But,” exclaimed four or five officers at once, “that is the heart of the position!  That is—­”

“I believe it is weak—­that it will fall, and to-night!”

“You have information, then, information that I have not?” asked Bouchard.

“No more than you,” replied Westerling.  “Not as much if you have anything new.”

“Nothing!” admitted Bouchard wryly.  He lowered his head under Westerling’s penetrating look in the consciousness of failure.