"Simunde!" There was an inflection in his voice, an almost imperceptible note of severity, that set her heart throbbing with fear. This was a new person to her, this calm, stern, blue-eyed man who showed no excitement, no anger, only a quiet, kindly severity that gave her no chance for subterfuge. She hated him for his calmness--because he was English--because he was unfair. If he had only shouted or gesticulated--but this brown-haired giant! To oppose him was like trying to stem the incoming tide. She looked up suddenly, and her dripping hands were clenched in a fever of supplication. Madly she pleaded for her lover, as a woman will plead only for the man she loves or for her child. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her voice was choked with sobs. Patiently he listened, gathering from the anguish more than from her words the story he had already guessed. In a climax of grief, she groped for him with her hands and would have cried on his breast. But he made no move; only his eyes were very grave and tender. "Simunde," he reiterated in English, "where is Jacque?" With a shrill cry of rage, she stamped her foot on the ground. This great iceberg of a man was a devil! He had come for her lover. He would take Jacque away to be shot. With an involuntary instinct of dismay, she glanced at the barn some little distance away; then, fearful that he had read her meaning, she forced a smile with her lips. Without a word, he put her gently aside and started for the barn. He had gone ten steps before she moved, when he heard her hurried breathing and her hands were on his arm. "_Monsieur_" she cried--"_monsieur le major_--Jacque--Jacque _keel_ you!" She spoke in broken English, remembering one of Des Rosiers's stories of his misdeeds. Releasing her fingers, he reached the barn in a few short paces. Opening the door, he cautiously entered and tried to accustom himself to the semi-darkness--and saw the barrel of a rifle in the loft slowly aligning itself in his direction. "Des Rosiers!" His voice rang out like a pistol-shot. "It is I--your officer!" There was no sound for almost a full minute, then the rifle was withdrawn, and the unshaved, disheveled French-Canadian stood before him. "Why you come?" he said brokenly. "I can no shoot my officier. Why you come, eh?" "Because you will go back with me, Des Rosiers." The deserter's eyes filled with tears. "By Gar!" he said, "it is not, what you say, play fair. I say I shoot who come, and Jacque Des Rosiers, he is no afraid. But you--my boss--_mais non_! Maybe I go back with you and maybe they shoot me, yes?" "You have deserted, and the punishment is--well, you know as well as I. If you come with me now there is a small chance of mercy."