"And Major Schwikkard?" said Burton, quietly. "That is not an old man speaking," said the captain to his companions. "There was no one else in the house except the old hag and the wounded man." "And the deaf mute," said one of the others. "Potztausend! If that dirty fellow has played tricks on us I will crop his ears and cut his tongue out. Give them a taste." Their revolvers spoke; three shots crashed through the wood, flew along the passage, through the open door opposite, and finally embedded themselves in the shutter. A moment later Burton, stepping to the edge of the doorway, lifted his rifle and fired. There was a cry from beyond the barricaded door, a volley of oaths, and a general stampede for safety to the landing. For a few minutes there was silence. The marquise stroked her son’s hot brow. Then a fusillade burst through the door and the stout barricade behind it. The bullets pattered on the shutters, but the three men had stood back out of the line of fire. None of them was struck by a shot, but a splinter of wood from the wardrobe glanced off the inner door ami grazed Pierre’s cheek. Again and again the fusillade was repeated. The defenders, husbanding their ammunition, and careful not to expose themselves, did not reply; they waited in grim silence, to meet the enemy’s next move. The failure of their efforts enraged and nonplussed the Germans. Warned by the shot that had wounded one of them, they made no attempt to storm the barricade. There was a short interval, and they were heard discussing the situation in low tones. The result was made clear in a few minutes. Bullets began to crash through the shutters to all the windows. "They have brought up men from the village, and surrounded the wing," said the general. "We shall be in no danger," said Burton. "Firing from the ground, their shots will go through the ceilings." In a short time this became apparent to the assailants. The attack ceased for a little; then, through the window of the room in which the major lay, bullets flew horizontally across the room, a few inches above his head. "They will kill their own officer!" cried Burton. "We can’t leave him helpless in his present position." "He deserves no pity," said the general. "Still, we are not Germans. My camp bed is there, lower than the bed he is on, and easily moved. Let us place him on that." "Mon Dieu! It is the bed you slept on in ’70, monsieur," cried Pierre. "What then, my friend?" "It is sacrilege, monsieur; it is treason to France--pardon, mon maitre, I should not have said that, but it would tear my heart to see a German on that bed." "Let that be our _revanche_," said the general, quietly.