With those melancholy words--touchingly, not bitterly spoken--she moved
to pass into the kitchen, when she noticed that the pattering sound of
the rain against the window was audible no more. Dropping the canvas for
the moment, she retraced her steps, and, unfastening the wooden shutter,
looked out.
The moon was rising dimly in the watery sky; the rain had ceased; the
friendly darkness which had hidden the French position from the German
scouts was lessening every moment. In a few hours more (if nothing
happened) the English lady might resume her journey. In a few hours more
the morning would dawn.
Mercy lifted her hand to close the shutter. Before she could fasten it
the report of a rifle-shot reached the cottage from one of the distant
posts. It was followed almost instantly by a second report, nearer and
louder than the first. Mercy paused, with the shutter in her hand, and
listened intently for the next sound.