Glodie,—witch that she is! my own treasure!—she had slipped down the bank into the ditch. Oh, Lord, I could have whipped her! I was on the wall at one bound, and there we all stood craning over. We made a fine target if the enemy had chosen to shoot at us, but he too was looking at my darling at the bottom of the ditch. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin, she had rolled down gently like a little kitten, and sat there among the flowering grasses, not in the least frightened, and looking up at the two rows of heads above her. She was laughing and making a nosegay. We all laughed too, and Monseigneur de Ragny, the enemy's commander, ordered that no harm be done to the child, and, good fellow that he was, threw her a bag of sugar-plums. But you never know what a woman will do next, and while we were all looking at Glodie, Martine rushed to save her lamb and she too fell down the bank, running, slipping, and rolling, her skirts turned up over her head. What a spectacle for the enemy! Immense applause! But nothing daunted, she hugged and slapped her baby. One of the soldiers, carried away by her charms, disobeyed his commanding officer, jumped into the ditch and ran towards her. She stood fast while we threw a broom down to her from the ramparts, seized it bravely, and marched on the enemy.
