He got out at the terminus and went down the road. A wind was still running. He could hear the faint whisper of the rye, and the stronger swish as a sudden gust was upon it. No one was about. Feeling detached and impersonal, he went down a field-path between the low vines. Many little vine trees rose up in spires, holding out tender pink shoots, waving their tendrils. He saw them distinctly and wondered over them. In a field a little way off, men and women were taking up the hay. The bullock-waggon stood by on the path, the men in their blue shirts, the women with white cloths over their heads carried hay in their arms to the cart, all brilliant and distinct upon the shorn, glowing green acres. He felt himself looking out of darkness on to the glamorous, brilliant beauty of the world around him, outside him. The Baron’s house, where Emilie was maidservant, stood square and mellow among trees and garden and fields. It was an old French grange. The barracks was quite near. Bachmann walked, drawn by a single purpose, towards the courtyard. He entered the spacious, shadowy, sun-swept place. The dog, seeing a soldier, only jumped and whined for greeting. The pump stood peacefully in a corner, under a lime tree, in the shade. The kitchen door was open. He hesitated, then walked in, speaking shyly and smiling involuntarily. The two women started, but with pleasure. Emilie was preparing the tray for afternoon coffee. She stood beyond the table, drawn up, startled, and challenging, and glad. She had the proud, timid eyes of some wild animal, some proud animal. Her black hair was closely banded, her grey eyes watched steadily. She wore a peasant dress of blue cotton sprigged with little red roses, that buttoned tight over her strong maiden breasts. At the table sat another young woman, the nursery governess, who was picking cherries from a huge heap, and dropping them into a bowl. She was young, pretty, freckled. “Good day!” she said pleasantly. “The unexpected.” Emilie did not speak. The flush came in her dark cheek. She still stood watching, between fear and a desire to escape, and on the other hand joy that kept her in his presence. “Yes,” he said, bashful and strained, while the eyes of the two women were upon him. “I’ve got myself in a mess this time.” “What?” asked the nursery governess, dropping her hands in her lap. Emilie stood rigid. Bachmann could not raise his head. He looked sideways at the glistening, ruddy cherries. He could not recover the normal world. “I knocked Sergeant Huber over the fortifications down into the moat,” he said. “It was an accident—but——” And he grasped at the cherries, and began to eat them, unknowing, hearing only Emilie’s little exclamation. “You knocked him over the fortifications!” echoed Fräulein Hesse in horror. “How?” Spitting the cherry-stones into his hand, mechanically, absorbedly, he told them. “Ach!” exclaimed Emilie sharply. “And how did you get here?” asked Fräulein Hesse.