But night saw the intense glare of three German searchlights shoot out of the darkness. A storm of shrapnel burst fiercely over the trenches of the Zouaves. A wild attack of shadowy forms surging up out of the undergrowth beat against the parapet, ebbed back in an inferno of noise from the long line of countless stabs of flame, was hurled into the ravine under the reiterated crashes, the sudden livid flares of shrapnel from the battery behind. Down below, at the highest window of the château, the countess stood looking out into the night, her lover's letter pressed close against her bosom. High above her flickered and spurted the endless rifle flashes from _his_ trenches, paling the stars above the dark hill. The noise of the conflict, the shouts and cries amid the re-echoing din, was a tribute to his power. She gloried in it, exulted when the attack subsided, withdrew in a clamour of voices past the château to the hill behind. Descending, she wrote yet another letter to him--a proud pæan of love triumphant. Then suddenly she flung herself, face downward, arms outstretched, across the table in a passion of irrepressible tears. She lay thus a long time, until the heaving of her body ceased and she slept, her cheek upon the letter. The morning was yet young when she despatched the dog once more upon his mission to her lover. Save for an occasional shot, the opposing trenches were quiet. Stretcher parties were at work in the valley. Waited upon by the ancient Marie--eloquent in her protestations of terror during the night--she breakfasted, counting the minutes until the return of her messenger. Roland arrived, pleased with himself, as his energetic tail testified. Once more with swelling breast and radiant face she read her lover's letter, passionate as the first. In a postscript, it begged her to give no information that might imperil her. During the day the battle woke again between the trenches at the head of the ravine, continued in fierce spasms hour after hour. In the afternoon she wrote another letter, despatched it and received an answer. She was strangely, exaltedly happy. _He_ was holding firm. No one came to the château. At night she again posted herself at the window to watch the flashes from his trenches. The third day dawned. She wrote, assuring him of her safety--of much else. The reply duly arrived. A false peace brooded over the little valley. Ceding to an impulse, she went out, tried to get a clearer view of his position, to see--she would not admit to herself her absurd hope. Then, regretting her imprudence, she returned hurriedly. The grey of afternoon already filled the valley when a loud, imperative knocking upon the great door re-echoed through the house. The countess stood as if turned to stone; her heart seemed to stop. So soon! The threat to her exalted, impassioned life of the past days paralysed her. She could with difficulty cry to Marie to admit.