The
retreat had begun.
Mercy drew aside the canvas, and saw the badly wounded men, left
helpless at the mercy of the enemy, on their straw beds. She
refused the offer of Monsieur Surville's arm.
"I have already told you that I shall stay here," she answered.
Monsieur Surville lifted his hands in polite remonstrance. Mercy
held back the curtain, and pointed to the cottage door.
"Go," she said. "My mind is made up."
Even at that final moment the Frenchman asserted himself. He made
his exit with unimpaired grace and dignity. "Madam," he said,
"you are sublime!" With that parting compliment the man of
gallantry--true to the last to his admiration of the sex--bowed,
with his hand on his heart, and left the cottage.
Mercy dropped the canvas over the doorway. She was alone with the
dead woman.
The last tramp of footsteps, the last rumbling of the wagon
wheels, died away in the distance. No renewal of firing from the
position occupied by the enemy disturbed the silence that
followed. The Germans knew that the French were in retreat. A few
minutes more and they would take possession of the abandoned
village: the tumult of their approach should become audible at
the cottage.
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