“That’s the Browns!” exclaimed Westerling in surprise.

The volume of fire increased.  With the rest of the frontier in darkness, the Engadir section was an isolated blaze.  In its light she saw his features, without alarm but hardening in dogged intensity.

“They’ve awakened to what they have lost!  They have been rushing up reserves and are making a counter-attack.  We must hold what we have gained, no matter what the cost!”

His last sentence was spoken over his shoulder as he started for the house.

Thus more fire called for more fire; more murder for more murder, she thought.  Her mind was projected into the thick of the battle.  She saw a panic of Grays caught in their triumph; of wounded men writhing and crawling over their dead comrades, their position shown to the marksmen by a search-light’s glare.  The dead grew thicker; their glassy eyes were staring at her in reproach.  She heard the hoarse and straining voices of the Browns in their “God with us!” through the din of automatics.  Men snuggled for cover amidst torn flesh and red-tinged mud in the trenches, and other men trampled them in fiendish risk of life to take more lives.

Without changing her position, hardly turning her head, she watched until the firing began to lessen rapidly.  Then she breathed, “Engadir must be ours again!” and realized that she was weak and faint.  Suspense had sapped her strength.  She sought a seat in the arbor, where the nervous force of other thoughts revived her.  What would Westerling say when he found that her information had led his men into a trap—­when staff scepticism was proven right and he a false prophet?

From the house came the confused sound of voices in puzzling chorus.  It was not a cheer.  It had the quality of a rapid fire of jubilant exclamation as a piece of news was passed from lip to lip.  Then she heard that step which she knew so well.  Sensitive ears noted that it touched the gravel with unusual energy and quickness, which she thought must be due to vexation over the repulse.  She rose to face him, summoning back the spirit of the actress.

“This is better yet!  I came to tell you that the counter-attack failed!” he said as he saw her appear from the shelter of the arbor.

She wondered if she were going to fall.  But the post of the trellis was within reach.  She caught hold of it to steady herself.  Failed!  All her acting had served only to make such a trap for the Browns as Lanny had planned for the Grays!  She was grateful for the darkness that hid her face, which was incapable of any expression now but blank despair.  Westerling’s figure loomed very large to her as she regained her self-possession—­large, dominant, unconquerable in the suggestion of five against three.  And felicitations were due!  She drew away from the post, swaying and trembling, nerves and body not yet under command of mind.  She could not force her tongue to so false a sentiment as congratulation.