“The moment I’ve lived for!” exclaimed Westerling.  “Our infantry is starting up the apron of Engadir!  We held back the fire of the heavy guns concentrated for the purpose of supporting the men with an outburst.  Three hundred heavy guns pouring in their shells on a space of two acres!  We’re tearing their redoubts to pieces!  They can’t see to fire!  They can’t live under it!  They’re in the crater of a volcano!  When our infantry is on the edge of the wreckage the guns cease.  Our infantry crowd in—­crowd into the house that Partow built.  He’ll find that numbers count; that the power of modern gun-fire will open the way for infantry in masses to take and hold vital tactical positions!  And—­no—­no, their fire in reply is not as strong as I expected.”

“Because they are letting you in!  It will be strong enough in due season!” thought Marta in the uncontrollable triumph of antagonism.  Five against three was in his tone and in every line of his features.

“It’s hard for a soldier to leave a sight like this, but the real news will be awaiting me at my desk,” he concluded, adding, as he turned away:  “It’s fireworks worth seeing, and if you remain here I will return to tell you the results.”

She had no thought of going.  That arc of dreadful lightnings held her with ghastly fascination.  Suddenly all the guns ceased.  Faintly in the distance she heard a tumult of human voices in the high notes of a savage cheer; the rattling din of rifles; the purring of automatics; and then, except for the firefly flashes of scattered shots around Engadir, silence and darkness.  But she knew that chaos would soon be loosed again—­chaos and murder, which were the product of her own chicanery.  The Grays would find themselves in the trap of Partow’s and Lanny’s planning.

Turning her back to the range for the moment, she saw the twinkle of the lights of the town and the threads of light of the wagon-trains and the sweep of the lights of the railroad trains on the plain; while in the foreground every window of the house was ablaze, like some factory on a busy night shift.  She could hear the click of the telegraph instruments already reporting the details of the action as cheerfully as Brobdingnagian crickets in their peaceful surroundings.  Then out of the shadows Westerling reappeared.

“The apron of Engadir is ours!” he called.  “Thanks to you!” he added with pointed emphasis.  Back in the house he had received congratulations with a nod, as if success were a matter of course.  Before her, exultation unbent stiffness, and he was hoarsely triumphant and eager.  “It’s plain sailing now,” he went on.  “A break in the main line!  We have only to drive home the wedge, and then—­and then!” he concluded.

She felt him close, his breath on her cheek.

“Peace!” she hastened to say, drawing back instinctively.

And then!  The irony of the words in the light of her knowledge was pointed by a terrific renewal of the thunders and the flashes far up on the range, and she could not resist rejoicing in her heart.