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His elation when he saw his plans going right was that of the instrument of Partow's training and Marta's service. He pressed the hands of the men around him; his voice caught in his gratitude and his breaths were very short at times, like those of a spent, happy runner at the goal.
Again there are people gathered for a simple procession, and horses are tied to the posts along the street. But this time it is not at old Marta's house that the people are, gathered, but at the new, white cottage that Ramon Enriquez built, a year ago, for his bride. Juan, merry and mischievous as a blue jay generally, is sober as he hovers on the outskirts of the little group of people.
But when Marta told the story of the part he had played in defence of the chandelier, personal partisanship abetted the motherly impulse that was already breaking down prejudice. She was busy with a dozen suggestions for his comfort, quite taking matters out of Marta's hands. "I know more about the care of the sick than you do!" she insisted. "One lump or two in your coffee, sir?
She insisted that she was strong enough to accompany Minna to the tower. While Minna urged mouthfuls down Marta's dry throat as she sat outside the door of the sitting-room with her mother a number of weary, dust-streaked faces, with feverish energy in their eyes, peered over the hedge that bounded the garden on the side toward the pass.
Clubbing his rifle, he struck down one officer who tried to detain him; but another officer, quicker than he, put a revolver bullet through his head. Westerling, who had buried his face in his hands in Marta's presence at the thought of failure, must keep the pose of his position before the staff.
They did not bother, about chairs, but seated themselves on the floor around Marta's skirts. "My, Miss Galland, but your eyes are bright!" "And your cheeks are all red!" "With little spots in the centre!" "You're very wonderful, Miss Galland!" The church clock boomed out its deliberate strokes through ten, the hour set for the lesson, and all counted them one two three.
It was Marta's voice and yet not Marta's, this voice that beat in nervous waves over the wire. "Lanny yes, I, Lanny! You were right. Westerling planned to make war deliberately to satisfy his ambition. He told me so. The first general attack on the first line of defence is to-night. Westerling says so!" She had to pause for breath.
She noted Marta's customary quickening interest at mention of Lanstron's name. It had become the talisman of a hope whose fulfilment was always being deferred. "How different Lanny and Westerling are!" Marta exclaimed, the picture of the two men rising before her vision.
Why, he's a bundle of nerve-wires held in control; a man of the age; master of his own machine, therefore, able to master the machine of an army." Of course, they guessed nothing of Marta's part in his success. The very things they were saying about him built up a figure of the type whose character she had keenly resented a few minutes before.
When Marta informed the officer the same one who had rung the door-bell on his second visit of the family's decision he appeared shocked at the idea of eviction that was implied. But, secretly pleased at the turn of events, he hastened to apologize for war's brutal necessities, and Marta's complaisance led him to consider himself something of a diplomatist.
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