"We are trying to settle who should have her—first." 

 "It's a pity there's only one, still——" began another. 

 "I'll make a bargain with you, then," interrupted Marteau quickly, fingering his weapon while he spoke.  "Food and drink in plenty for you, the woman for me." 

 "And what do you want of the woman?" 

 "Before I was a soldier I lived in Aumenier, I told you. I served these people. This woman is an aristocrat. I hate her." 

 It was an old appeal and an old comment but it served. These were wild days like those of the revolution, the license and rapine and ravagings of which some of the older men present could very well recall. 

 "She treated me like dirt under her feet," went on the officer.  "Now I want to have my turn." 

 "Marteau!" cried the woman for the first time, recognizing him as he turned a grim face toward her, upon which he had very successfully counterfeited a look of hatred.  "Is it indeed——" 

 "Silence," thundered the young soldier, stepping near to her and shaking his clenched fist in her face.  "These worthy patriots will give you to me, and then——" 

 There was a burst of wild laughter throughout the room. 

 "It's these cursed aristocrats that have brought these hateful Russians upon us," cried one. 

 "Give her to the lad and let us have food and drink," cried another. 

 "He'll deal with her," cried a third. 

 "You hear?" asked the chief. 

 "I hear," answered Marteau.  "Listen. My father kept this house for its owners. He is dead in the village yonder." 

 "The wine, the wine," roared one, licking his lips. 

 "Food. I starve," cried another, baring his teeth. 

 "Wait. Naturally, fleeing from the army, I came to him. My sister is dead too, outraged, murdered. You know?" 

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