"What can you do for me?" Mercy asked, stung by the cold courtesy
of her companion into a momentary outbreak of contempt. "Can you
change my identity? Can you give me the name and the place of an
innocent woman? If I only had your chance! If I only had your
reputation and your prospects!" She laid one hand over her bosom,
and controlled herself. "Stay here," she resumed, "while I go
back to my work. I will see that your clothes are dried. You
shall wear my clothes as short a time as possible."

With those melancholy words--touchingly, not bitterly spoken--she
moved to pass into the kitchen, when she noticed that the
pattering sound of the rain against the window was audible no
more. Dropping the canvas for the moment, she retraced her steps,
and, unfastening the wooden shutter, looked out.

The moon was rising dimly in the watery sky; the rain had ceased;
the friendly darkness which had hidden the French position from
the German scouts was lessening every moment. In a few hours more
(if nothing happened) the English lady might resume her journey.
In a few hours more the morning would dawn.

Mercy lifted her hand to close the shutter. Before she could
fasten it the report of a rifle-shot reached the cottage from one
of the distant posts. It was followed almost instantly by a
second report, nearer and louder than the first. Mercy paused,
with the shutter in her hand, and listened intently for the next
sound.

CHAPTER III.