All this had Muriel Roscoe come through, physically scathless,
mentally torn and battered, and she could not bring herself to realise
that the long-drawn-out misery of the siege could ever be over.
Lying there, tense and motionless, she listened to the shots and yells
in the distance with a shuddering sense that it was all a part of her
life, of her very being, even. The torture and the misery had so eaten
into her soul. Now and then she heard the quick thunder of one of the
small guns that armed the fort, and at the sound her pulses leaped
and quivered. She knew that the ammunition was running very low. These
guns did not often speak now.
Then, during a lull, there came to her the careless humming of a
British voice, the free, confident tread of British feet, approaching
her door.
She caught her breath as a hand rapped smartly upon the panel. She
knew who the visitor was, but she could not bring herself to bid him
enter. A sudden awful fear was upon her. She could neither speak nor
move. She lay, listening intently, hoping against hope that he would
believe her to be sleeping and go away.
The knock was not repeated. Dead silence reigned. And then quickly
and decidedly the door opened, and Nick Ratcliffe stood upon the
threshold. The light struck full upon his face as he halted--a clever,
whimsical face that might mask almost any quality good or bad.
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