"Who is in command here?" asked Jack, turning to a handsome dragoon officer who stood leaning on his sabre, the horse-hair crinière blowing about his helmet.
"Why, General Farron!" said the officer in surprise.
"Farron!" repeated Jack; "is he back from Africa, here in France--here at Morteyn?"
"He is at the Château de Nesville," said the officer, smiling. "You seem to know him, monsieur."
"Indeed I do," said Jack, warmly. "Do you think he will come here?"
"I suppose so. Shall I send you word when he arrives?"
Another officer came up, a general, white-haired and sombre.
"Is this the Vicomte de Morteyn?" he asked, looking at Jack.
"His nephew; the vicomte has gone to Paris. My name is Marche," said Jack.
The general saluted him; Jack bowed.
"I regret the military necessity of occupying the Château; the government will indemnify Monsieur le Vicomte--"
Jack held up his hand: "My uncle is an old soldier of France--the government is welcome; I bid you welcome in the name of the Vicomte de Morteyn."
The old general flushed and bowed deeply.
"I thank you in the name of the government. Blood will tell. It is easy, Monsieur Marche, to see that you are the nephew of the Vicomte de Morteyn."
"Monsieur Marche," said the young dragoon officer, respectfully, "is a friend of General Farron."
"I had the honour to be attached as correspondent to his staff--in Oran," said Jack.
The old general held out his hand with a gesture entirely charming.
"I envy General Farron your friendship," he said. "I had a son--perhaps your age. He died--yesterday." After a silence, he said: "There are ladies in the Château?"
"Yes," replied Jack, soberly.
The general turned with a gesture towards the woods. "It is too late to move them; we are, it appears, fairly well walled in. The cellar, in case of bombardment, is the best you can do for them. How many are there?"
"Two, general. One is a Sister of Mercy."
Other officers began to gather on the terrace, glasses persistently focussed on the nearer woods. Somebody called to an officer below the terrace to hurry the cannon.
Jack made his way through the throng of officers to the stairs, mounted them, and knocked at Lorraine's door.
"Is it you--Jack?"
"Yes."
"Come."
He went in.
Lorraine lay on the bed, quiet and pale; it startled him to see her so calm. For an instant he hesitated on the threshold, then went slowly to the bedside. She held out one hand; he took it.
"I cannot cry," she said; "I cannot. Sit beside me, Jack. Listen: I am wicked--I have not a single tear for my father. I have been here--so--all night long. I prayed to weep; I cannot. I understand he is dead--that I shall never again wait for him, watch at his door in the turret, dream he is calling me; I understand that he will never call me again--never again--never. And I cannot weep. Do you hate me? I am tired--so tired, like a child--very young."