"Your father has remained outside?" Paul asked his brother-in-law. "Yes, he took the bicycle of a man who was riding near us and who was slightly wounded. Papa is seeing to him." "Go and fetch him; and, if the lieutenant doesn't object . . ." He was interrupted by the bursting of a shrapnel shell the bullets of which riddled the sandbags heaped up in the front of them. The day was breaking. They could see an enemy column looming out of the darkness a mile away at most. "Ready there!" shouted the lieutenant from below. "Don't fire a shot till I give the order. No one to show himself!" It was not until a quarter of an hour later and then only for four or five minutes that Paul and M. d'Andeville were able to exchange a few words. Their conversation, moreover, was so greatly hurried that Paul had no time to decide what attitude he should take up in the presence of Élisabeth's father. The tragedy of the past, the part which the Comtesse Hermine's husband played in that tragedy: all this was mingled in his mind with the defense of the block-house. And, in spite of their great liking for each other, their greeting was somewhat absent and distracted. Paul was ordering a small window to be stopped with a mattress. Bernard was posted at the other end of the room. M. d'Andeville said to Paul: "You're sure of holding out, aren't you?" "Absolutely, as we've got to." "Yes, you've got to. I was with the division yesterday, with the English general to whom I am attached as interpreter, when the attack was decided on. The position seems to be of essential importance; and it is indispensable that we should stick to it. I saw that this gave me an opportunity of seeing you, Paul, as I knew that your regiment was to be here. So I asked leave to accompany the contingent that had been ordered to. . . ." There was a fresh interruption. A shell came through the roof and shattered the wall on the side opposite to the canal. "Any one hurt?" "No, sir." M. d'Andeville went on: "The strangest part of it was finding Bernard at your colonel's last night. You can imagine how glad I was to join the cyclists. It was my only chance of seeing something of my boy and of shaking you by the hand. . . . And then I had no news of my poor Élisabeth; and Bernard told me. . . ." "Ah," said Paul quickly, "has Bernard told you all that happened at the château?" "At least, as much as he knew; but there are a good many things that are difficult to understand; and Bernard says that you have more precise details. For instance, why did Élisabeth stay at the château?" "Because she wanted to," said Paul. "I was not told of her decision until later, by letter." "I know. But why didn't you take her with you, Paul?" "When I left Ornequin, I made all the necessary arrangements for her to go." "Good. But you ought not to have left Ornequin without her. All the trouble is due to that."