The southeast bastion was raked by a fire which disabled the
guns and killed three men. Five others were wounded at various posts.
The long spring twilight sunk through an orange horizon rim and filled
up the measure which makes night, before firing reluctantly stopped.
Marie had ground opened near the powder magazine to make a temporary
grave for her three dead. They had no families. She held a taper in her
hand and read a service over them. One bastion and so many men being
disabled, a sentinel was posted in the turret after the gunners
descended. The Swiss took this duty on himself, and felt his way up the
pitch-black stairs. He had not seen Marguerite in the hall when he
hurriedly took food, but she was safe in the tower. No woman ventured
out in the storm of shot. The barracks were charred and battered.

As Klussman reached the turret door he exclaimed against some human
touch, but caught his breath and surrendered himself to Marguerite's
arms, holding her soft body and smoothing her silk-stranded hair.

"I heard you say you would come up here," murmured Marguerite. "And the
door was unlocked."

"Where have you been since morning?"

"Behind a screen in the great hall. The women are cruel."

Klussman hated the women. He kissed his wife with the first kiss since
their separation, and all the toils of war failed to unman him like that
kiss.

"But there was that child!" he groaned.

"That was not my child," said Marguerite.

"The baby brought here with you!"

"It was not mine."

"Whose was it?"

"It was a drunken soldier's. His wife died. They made me take care of
it," said Marguerite resentfully.

"Why didn't you tell me that?" exclaimed Klussman. "You made me lie to
my lady!"

Marguerite had no answer. He understood her reticence, and the
degradation which could not be excused.

"Who made you take care of it?"

"He did."

"D'Aulnay?" Klussman uttered through his teeth.

"Yes; I don't like him."

"_I_ like him!" said the savage Swiss.

"He is cruel," complained Marguerite, "and selfish."

The Swiss pressed his cheek to her soft cheek.

"I never was selfish and cruel to thee," he said, weakly.

"No, you never were."

"Then why," burst out the husband afresh, "did you leave me to follow
that beast of prey?"

Marguerite brought a sob from her breast which was like a sword through
Klussman. He smoothed and smoothed her hair.

"But what did I ever do to thee, Marguerite?"

"I always like