No reply came.  She poured out more questions, and still no reply.  She pressed the button and tried again, but she might as well have been talking over a dead wire.

* * * * *

Though the morning was chill, Mrs. Galland, in a heavy coat, was seated outside the tower door, beatifically calm and smiling; for she would miss rejoicing over no detail of the spectacle.  The battle’s sounds were sweet music—­symphony of retribution.  Oh, if her husband and her father could only be with her to see the ancient enemy in flight!  Her cheeks were rosy with the happy thrumming of her heart; a delirious beat was in her temples.  She wanted to sing and cheer and give thanks to the Almighty.  The advancing bursts of billowy shrapnel down the slopes were a heavenly nimbus to her eyes.  She breathed a silent blessing on a manoeuvring Brown dirigible.  They were coming!  The soldiers of her people were coming to take back their own from the robber hosts and restore her hearth to her.  Soon she would be seated on the veranda watching the folds of her flag floating over La Tir.

“Isn’t it wonderful?  Isn’t it like some good story?” she said to Marta.  “Yes, like a miracle—­and there has been a Galland in every war of the Browns and you were in this!”

Having no son, she had given her daughter in sacrifice on the altar of her country’s gods, who had answered with victory.  Her old-fashioned patriotism, true to the “all-is-fair-in-war” precept, delighted in the hour of success in every trick of Marta’s double-dealing, though in private life she could have been guilty of no deceit.

“Marta, Marta, I shall never tease you again about your advanced ideas or about journeying all the way around the world without a chaperon.  Your father and my father would have approved!” She squeezed Marta’s hands and pressed them to her cheek.  Marta smiled absently.

“Yes, mother,” she said, but in such a fashion that Mrs. Galland was reminded again that Marta had always been peculiar.  Probably it was because she was peculiar that she had been able to outwit the head of an army.

“Oh, that mighty Westerling who was going to conquer the whole world!  How does he feel now?” mused Mrs. Galland “Westerling and his boasted power of five against three!”

For the Grays were barbarians to her and the Browns a people of a superior civilization, a superior aristocracy, a superior professional and farming and laboring class.  There was nothing about the Browns to Mrs. Galland that was not superior.  War, that ancient popular test of superiority in art, civilization, morals, scholarship, the grace of woman and the manliness of man, had proved her point in the high court, permitting of no appeal.

One man alone against the tide—­rather, the man who has seen a tide rise at his orders now finding all its sweep against him—­Westerling, accustomed to have millions of men move at his command, found himself, one man out of the millions, still and helpless while they moved of their own impulses.