A week later they came to Mona one by one with various lying excuses for leaving her. Asking no questions she pays them off and lets them go. She has been alone for three days when the Commandant, with his kind eyes, comes to see what he can do. What if he sends some of the guard to help her? “No, sir, no.” “Some of the Germans, then?” “N-o.” “But, good gracious, girl, you can’t carry on the farm by yourself.” “I’m strong. I’ll manage somehow, sir.” “But sixteen cows--it’s utterly impossible--utterly!” “Half of them are dry now and will have to go out to grass. I can attend to the rest, sir.” “But won’t you be afraid to live in this house alone--a woman, with men like these about you?” “I don’t think I will, sir.” Half a year has passed. Mona has seen nothing of Oskar since Christmas. With a thrill of the heart she hears of the wide liberty he has won by his ability and good behaviour. But even in that there is a certain sting. He is free of the camp now as far as the barbed wire extends; why does he not come to see her? Sometimes she feels bitter that he does not come, but again the strange thing is that sometimes she is sure that if he did come she would run away from him. All the same, she has a sense of his presence always about her. No matter how early she rises in the morning she finds that the rough work of the farm, unfit for a woman, has been done by other hands before she has reached the cow-house. For a long time this sense as of a supernatural presence, unseen and unheard, helping her and caring for her and keeping guard over her, strengthens her days and sweetens her nights. But at length something happens which causes her courage to fail. Rumour has come to the camp that a great enemy offensive is shortly to be made on the Western front. To meet the need of it the old guard of tried and trusted men are sent overseas, and their places filled by a new guard, which seem to have been recruited from the very sweepings of the streets. The captain of this new guard assigned to the first three compounds (the nearest to the farmhouse) turns out to be a brute. His antecedents are doubtful. His own men, to whom he is a tyrant, say he has been a barman in a public-house somewhere, and that a few years before the war he was convicted of a criminal assault on a woman. Mona becomes aware that she is attracting the attention of this ruffian. He is asking questions about her, following her with his evil eyes, and making coarse remarks that are intended to meet her ears. “Fine gal! Splendid! What a woman for a wife, too!” During the day he finds excuses to call at the farm-house and engage her in conversation. At length he knocks at her door at night. It is late, the camp is quiet, nobody is in sight anywhere. Before knowing who knocked Mona has opened the door. The man makes an effort to enter, but she refuses to admit him. He pleads, coaxes, threatens and finally tries to force his way into the house.