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Updated: May 3, 2025
Klussman's glance rested on the body with that abashed hatred which a man condemns in himself when its object is helpless. "It is D'Aulnay's child," he muttered, as if stating abundant reason for its taking off.
This had been her employment much of the night, but the nervous fit of childish weeping swept away all of Klussman's self-control. "No; no;" she repeated. "You think I do everything that is horrible." And she sobbed upon her hands. Klussman stooped down and tossed the hand like an escaped coal behind the log. As he stooped he said, "I don't think that. Don't cry. If you cry I will shoot myself."
The soldier in the trench could not hear what they said, but he had time for no further thought of Klussman. He had been watching the ponies with the conviction that his own life hung on what he might drive them to do. They alternately snuffed at Klussman's presence and put their noses down to feel for springing grass.
Before they could start and wheel from the friar, the soldier had thrown his hunting-knife. It struck the hind leg of the nearest pony and a scampering and snorting hurricane swept down past the elm. Klussman's stool and the torch-bearer were rolled together. Both lights were stamped out by the panic-struck men, who thought a sally had been made from the fort.
"It is a serious breach in the discipline of this fortress for even you to disobey me constantly," said the lady, again severely, though she knew her lecture was wasted on the human brownie. Le Rossignol poked and worried the mandolin with antennæ-like fingers, and made up a contrite face. The dimness of the hall had not covered Klussman's large pallor.
Bind yourselves afresh to me as you bound yourselves before the other attack." "My lady, we do!" Out leaped every right hand, Klussman's with the torch, which lost and caught its flame again with the sudden sweep. "That is all: and I thank you," said Marie. "We will do our best."
Klussman's scowl darkened his mountain-born fairness. "I would rather, indeed, be bringing more men to the fort instead of more women," said his lady, as they mounted the slope. "But this one might have perished in the stockade where we found her, and your lord not only misliked her, as you seem to do, but he held her in suspicion.
"Yes, we shall see him or have news of him soon." In the tumult of Klussman's mind Jonas Bronck's hand never again came uppermost. He cared nothing and thought nothing about that weird fragment, in the midst of living disaster. It had merely been the occasion of his surrendering to Marguerite.
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