She trudged along beside Ruth through the ruin of the orchard and halted with her hand upon the bough of an apple tree which was one of those that the French had grafted and saved.
"I saw them cut this down; they measure so many centimeters from the ground; they start to saw; they cut so far through; they stop; it is destroyed! Ah, but I shall pluck apples this August, oh, beast pigs, brutes below all others!" she apostrophized quite calmly. "How may those who have the form of men be such fools, too?" she asked Ruth. "When they are here—those who bound me to the bed and their comrades—they say that they would be the friends of France. The English, they say, are our enemies; we shall see! Well, the English are about us now as they have been; and look, I have come of my own will away from Victor and Marie, leaving them alone, sleeping. Such danger now! And you, Mademoiselle, you are younger and as beautiful even as my Laurent's wife—you go on, quite safe, unaccompanied."
Ruth proceeded quite safely, indeed; but not unaccompanied for long. The English, as Grand'mère Bergues said, were all about—a regiment was lying in reserve just then beyond Mirevaux; and a certain young lieutenant, who had been one of the guests at a tea at Mrs. Mayhew's cottage a week ago, was awaiting Ruth upon the road. His name was Haddon-Staples; but he was so like "1582" of the Ribot that Ruth had dubbed him to herself "1583" and she appreciated him hugely.
Hardly had he caught step with her when the guns began—the English guns.
