She kept on until she reached a point opposite
Father Beret's hut, to which she then ran, the flag streaming
bravely behind her in the wind, her heart beating time to her
steps.
It was plainly a great surprise to Father Beret, who looked up
from his prayer when she rushed in, making a startling clatter,
the loose puncheons shaking together under her reckless feet.
"Oh, Father, here it is! Hide it, hide it, quick!"
She thrust the flag toward him.
"They shall not have it! They shall never have it!"
He opened wide his shrewd, kindly eyes; but did not fairly
comprehend her meaning.
She was panting, half laughing, half crying. Her hair, wildly
disheveled, hung in glorious masses over her shoulders. Her face
beamed triumphantly,
"They are taking the fort," she breathlessly added, again urging
the flag upon him, "they're going in, but I got this and ran away
with it. Hide it, Father, hide it, quick, quick, before they
come!"
The daring light in her eyes, the witching play of her dimples,
the madcap air intensified by her attitude and the excitement of
the violent exercise just ended--something compounded of all
these and more--affected the good priest strangely. Involuntarily
he crossed himself, as if against a dangerous charm.
"Mon Dieu, Father Beret," she exclaimed with impatience, "haven't
you a grain of sense left? Take this flag and hide it, I tell you!
Don't stay there gazing and blinking.
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