And you"--he turned to the men by the
door--"pile some wood in the chimney-place and light it. There are some
sticks over yonder,--but if you don't find enough, break up a chair.
Then when you get a good blaze, heat me one of the fire-irons. Heat it
red-hot. And be quick! We are wasting time!"
The color was leaving the girl's cheeks, but she sat even straighter,
prouder. As for me, for one instant I experienced a blessed relief.
I had been right; it was all impossible. One didn't talk seriously of
red-hot irons.
"You must think you are King John," I laughed. "But you're overplaying.
Don't worry, Miss Falconer; he won't touch you. There are things that
men don't do."
He looked at me, not angrily, not in resentment, but in pure contempt;
and I remembered. There were people, hundreds of them, in the burning
villages of Belgium, in the ravaged lands of northern France, who had
once felt the same assurance that certain things couldn't be done and
had learned that they could. I glanced at the men who were piling wood
on the hearth, at their sullen blue eyes, their air of rather stupid
arrogance.
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