As a girl the young countess had been intensely fond of Jean Marteau. He certainly appeared well in his present role before her. In the revulsion of feeling in finding him not a bully, not a traitor, but a devoted friend and servitor, he advanced higher in her estimation than ever before. Besides, the young woman was by no means so thoroughgoing a loyalist as her old uncle, for instance. 

 "I can see them now, monsieur," said the young peasant from the peep-hole in the shutter. 

 Indeed, the men outside had broken away from the door, groups were running to and fro seeking lights and some other entrance. Taking aim at the nearest Marteau pulled the trigger and Pierre followed his example. The noise of the explosions was succeeded by a scream of anguish, one man was severely wounded and another killed. Something mysterious had happened while they had been off on the wild goose chase apparently, the Russians decided. The château had been seized, their officers had been made way with, it was held by the enemy. 

 "They can't be anything more than wandering peasants," cried an imperious voice in Russian outside.  "I thought you had made thorough work with them all, Scoref," continued the speaker.  "Your Cossacks must have failed to complete the job." 

 "It will be the first time," answered Scoref, the hetman of the raiders.  "Look, the village burns!" 

 "Well, what's to be done now?" said the first voice. 

 "I don't know, Baron," was the answer.  "Besieging castles is more in your line than in mine." 

 "Shall we fire again, monsieur?" asked Pierre within. 

 "No," was the answer.  "Remember we've only got eight shots and we must wait." 

 "Let us have lights," cried the commander of the squadron.  "Here, take one of those wagons and——" 

 In a few moments a bright fire was blazing in the courtyard. 

 "The shots came from those windows," continued the Russian.  "Keep out of the way and——  Isn't that a window open up there?" 

 "It is, it is!" came the answer from a dozen throats. 

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