As the meal progressed, and the Germans’ potations deepened, their manners went from bad to worse. They commenced an orgy of plate-smashing, flinging pellets of damp bread at one another and at pictures on the walls. Burton’s fingers tingled; from his place at the hatch he could have shot them one by one with the revolver that lay snug in his blouse. But he contained his anger. The four orderlies were in an adjacent room; the village was filled with the troopers; and hasty action would probably involve the destruction of the château and the massacre of its long-suffering inhabitants. Presently they called for coffee, and the major went to the marquis’s cigar cupboard, promising his subordinates the best smoke of their lives. The champagne seemed to have affected him less than the other members of the party, and Burton gained the impression that he was holding himself in for the accomplishment of some sinister purpose. Dismissing the marquise with a curt and contemptuous "Gehen Sie aus," he called in an orderly to lock her in the upper room with her husband and son. "Now get your own suppers and turn in," he said. "You may be disturbed; the sneaking Englishmen are somewhere in the neighbourhood; so keep a man on guard to give warning, and post a sentry in the corridor. Send Vossling to me." His own orderly entered. The major opened a fresh bottle, and passed it round the table; then with a "Verzeihen Sie mir" to his companions, he rose, and took the man into the passage out of earshot. Burton had slipped back into the kitchen; the passage appeared to be vacant. A few minutes later old Pierre, his face blanched to the colour of chalk, staggered into the kitchen. "What is the matter?" asked Burton, alarmed. He poured out a little brandy, and held the glass to the old man’s pale and quivering lips. Pierre gulped the liquid, looked around with horror in his eyes, and signed to Burton to throw the door wide open. "They must not know, monsieur," he said in a whisper, tottering to a chair. "What is the matter?" Burton repeated. "I was in the passage, I heard them coming. They are not there, monsieur?" "No, there is no one," said Burton, looking out through the open door. "I slipped into the dark ante-room, monsieur, and hid behind the tall clock. They came in." "Who?" "The major--Schwikkard, the accursed spy, and his man. I heard what they said. ’The old marquis is a bitter enemy of Germany,’ said Schwikkard. ’He fought against us in ’70. He is a dangerous man. Now, if the west wing of the château caught fire--_caught fire_, you understand--say, in the early morning.’ ... They are not there, monsieur?" "No. Go on."