After the officer had leisurely lighted a cigarette he asked her who she was.  She made no answer.

“You are the Erith woman, are you not?” he demanded.

She was silent.

“You Yankee slut,” he added, nodding to himself and staring up into her bloodless face.

Her eyes wandered; she looked at, but scarcely saw the lovely wildflowers under foot, the butterflies flashing their burnished wings among the sunbeams.

“Drop her arm.”  The signaller let go and stood at attention.

“Take her knife and pistol and your flags and go across the stream to the hut.”

The signaller saluted, gathered the articles mentioned, and went away in that clumping, rocking gait of the land peasant of Hundom.

“Now,” said the officer, “strip off your coat!”

She turned scarlet, but he sprang to his feet and tore her coat from her.  She fought off every touch; several times he struck her—­once so sharply that the blood gushed from her mouth and nose; but still she fought him; and when he had completed his search of her person, he was furious, streaked with sweat and all smeared with her blood.

“Damned cat of a Yankee!” he panted, “stand there where you are or I’ll blow your face off!”

But as he emptied the pockets of her coat she seized it and put it on, sobbing out her wrath and contempt of him and his threats as she covered her nearly naked body with the belted jacket and buttoned it to her throat.

He glanced at the papers she had carried, at the few poor articles that had fallen from her pockets, tossed them on the ground beside the log and resumed his seat and cigarette.

“Where’s McKay?”

No answer.

“So you tricked us, eh?” he sneered.  “You didn’t get your rat-poison at the spring after all.  The Yankees are foxes after all!” He laughed his loud, nasal, nickering laugh—­“Foxes are foxes but men are men.  Do you understand that, you damned vixen?”

“Will you let me kill myself?” she asked in a low but steady voice.

He seemed surprised, then realising why she had asked that mercy, showed all his teeth and smirked at her out of narrow-slitted eyes.

“Where is McKay?” he repeated.

She remained mute.

“Will you tell me where he is to be found?”

“No!”

“Will you tell me if I let you go?”

“No.”

“Will you tell me if I give you back your trench-knife?”

The white agony in her face interested and amused him and he waited her reply with curiosity.

“No!” she whispered.

“Will you tell me where McKay is to be found if I promise to shoot you before—­”

“No!” she burst out with a strangling sob.

He lighted another cigarette and, for a while, considered her musingly as he sat smoking.  After a while he said:  “You are rather dirty—­all over blood.  But you ought to be pretty after you’re washed.”  Then he laughed.