“Of course you could not,” said Mrs. Galland.  “As grandfather—­my father, the premier—­said; a man action cannot stop to explain everything he does.  He must strike while the iron is hot.  If you had stopped to discuss every step you would not have gone far—­Yes, I should have argued and protested.  It was best that I, being as I am—­that I should not have been told—­not until now.”

“And I must go on!” added Marta.

“Of course you must!” replied Mrs. Galland.  “You must for the sake of the Browns—­the flag your father and grandfather served.  They would not have approved of petty deceit, but anything for the cause, any sacrifices, any immolation of self and personal sensibilities.  Yes, your father would have been happy, though he had no son, to know that his daughter might do such a service.  And we must tell Minna,” she added.

“Minna!  You think so?  Every added link may mean weakness.”

“But Minna will see you going and coming from the tunnel, too.  She is for the Browns with all her heart.  They are her people and, besides,” Mrs. Galland smiled rather broadly, “that giant Stransky is with the Browns!” So Minna was told.

“I’d like to kiss your skirt, Miss Galland!” exclaimed Minna in admiration.

“Better kiss me!” said Marta, throwing her arms around the girl.  “We must stand together and think together in any emergency.”

Soon after dark the attack began.  Flashes of bursting shells and flashes from gun mouths and glowing sheets of flame from rifles made ugly revelry, while the beams of search-lights swept hither and thither.  This kept up till shortly after midnight, when it died down and, where hell’s concert had raged, silent darkness shrouded the hills.  Marta knew that Bordir was taken without having to ask Lanstron or wait for confirmation from Westerling.

She was seated in the recess of the arbor the next morning, when she heard the approach of those regular, powerful steps whose character had become as distinct to her as those of a member of her own family.  Five Against three! five against three! they were saying to her; while down the pass road and the castle road ran the stream of wounded from last night’s slaughter.

Posted in the drawing-room of the Galland house were the congratulations of the premier to Westerling, who had come from the atmosphere of a staff that accorded to him a military insight far above the analysis of ordinary standards.  But he was too clever a man to vaunt his triumph.  He knew how to carry his honors.  He accepted success as his due, in a matter-of-course manner that must inspire confidence in further success.

“You were right,” he said to Marta easily, pleasantly.  “We did it—­we did it—­we took Bordir with a loss of only twenty thousand men!”

Only twenty thousand!  Her revulsion at the bald statement was relieved by the memory of Lanny’s word over the telephone after breakfast that the Browns had lost only five thousand.  Four to one was a wide ratio, she was thinking.