And suddenly, as though a miracle had been wrought, she saw upon the lawn, riding toward her, a man in scarlet, blue, and silver.  One man riding alone.

Approaching with confidence, but alert; his reins fallen, his hands nursing his carbine, his eyes searched the shadows of the trees, the empty windows, even the sun-swept sky.  His was the new face at the door, the new step on the floor.  And the spy knew had she beheld an army corps it would have been no more significant, no more menacing, than the solitary chasseur a cheval scouting in advance of the enemy.

“We are saved!” exclaimed Marie, with irony.  “Go quickly,” she commanded, “to the bedroom on the second floor that opens upon the staircase, so that you can see all who pass.  You are too ill to travel.  They must find you in bed.”

“And you?” said Bertha.

“I,” cried Marie rapturously, “hasten to welcome our preserver!”

The preserver was a peasant lad.  Under the white dust his cheeks were burned a brown-red, his eyes, honest and blue, through much staring at the skies and at horizon lines, were puckered and encircled with tiny wrinkles.  Responsibility had made him older than his years, and in speech brief.  With the beautiful lady who with tears of joy ran to greet him, and who in an ecstasy of happiness pressed her cheek against the nose of his horse, he was unimpressed.  He returned to her her papers and gravely echoed her answers to his questions.  “This chateau,” he repeated, “was occupied by their General Staff; they have left no wounded here; you saw the last of them pass a half-hour since.”  He gathered up his reins.

Marie shrieked in alarm.  “You will not leave us?” she cried.

For the first time the young man permitted himself to smile.  “Others arrive soon,” he said.

He touched his shako, wheeled his horse in the direction from which he had come, and a minute later Marie heard the hoofs echoing through the empty village.

When they came, the others were more sympathetic.  Even in times of war a beautiful woman is still a beautiful woman.  And the staff officers who moved into the quarters so lately occupied by the enemy found in the presence of the Countess d’Aurillac nothing to distress them.  In the absence of her dear friend, Madame Iverney, the chatelaine of the chateau, she acted as their hostess.  Her chauffeur showed the company cooks the way to the kitchen, the larder, and the charcoal-box.  She, herself, in the hands of General Andre placed the keys of the famous wine-cellar, and to the surgeon, that the wounded might be freshly bandaged, intrusted those of the linen-closet.  After the indignities she had suffered while “detained” by les Boches, her delight and relief at again finding herself under the protection of her own people would have touched a heart of stone.  And the hearts of the staff were not of stone.  It was with regret they gave the countess permission to continue on her way.  At this she exclaimed with gratitude.  She assured them, were her aunt able to travel, she would immediately depart.