Later on he began to get hungry, and as supper was delayed some hours he clamored at the door. To his amazement he was at once let out by a half-breed washerwoman, and looking round saw that the guardroom was full of civilian refugees. For a minute he stood watching them as they sat around a glowing stove, whose naked iron flue went red-hot through the wooden ceiling. “You’ll have the place on fire soon,” he said, and they only smiled at him. Where was the Guard? Away relieving sentries, he supposed, as he reached his sidearms down from a peg, belted on his revolver, and strolled outside. He found himself in the covered entry of the fort, under the gate house. On his right the great courtyard was littered with sleighs, and swarming with men at work preparing for the retreat. On his left the gates swung ajar. To look more business-like he swung an axe across his shoulder, and marched out, explaining to the sentry that he was on duty. The riverside meadows lay silver below the moon and the fresh night allured him as he skirted the stockade, answering a challenge from the bastion, then turned towards the rear side of the fort. He was thinking of the merry lady who might have been there had he come last night. She was there! He drew near to the cloaked and silent woman, and lifted his cap; “Mrs. Sarde, I think?” She shrank back against the upright posts of the stockade, thrust out white hands against him, and barely repressed a scream. “Who are you? What are you?” she cried. He saw that her face was pale, touched by the moonlight into a spiritual delicacy. “The Blackguard, madam,” he answered. “Oh, how you frightened me! What is it, la Mancha? You’ve brought a message for me?” “You thought I was a ghost,” he whispered; “you thought I was—” “Buck? Yes.” He saw a tear run down her cheek. “Yes, I thought so.” “I am his messenger.” The Blackguard’s voice was soft and low, he leaned towards her, his hand against the stockade, as he bent down. “His last thought was of you, he tried to give me a message, but his voice failed then.” “My brother! My poor brother!” The Blackguard started back. “The deuce!” he stammered, “what a beastly sell! Your brother, madam?” He uncovered his head. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sarde; I beg your forgiveness.” “Nobody knew,” her voice was broken with tears; “not even my husband. Poor boy—things had gone wrong down East. He had to change his name, and when he joined the Force—for my sake, he wouldn’t say that he was my brother. He was in the ranks, you see, and I—” “You are in trouble, madam”—a new reverence had come into la Mancha’s manner. “I was your brother’s friend—may I take his place and serve you?” “How kind of you to think of that, Mr. la Mancha. But then, you see, my husband—you understand?” “Has the right to protect you; yes, he has that great honor.”