. . .
The enemy was less than a mile away, and advancing rapidly.
To anticipate. Madame the duchess had indeed contemplated
striking the blow at night. That morning, like the brave Amazon
she was, she had pitched her tent in the midst of her army, to
marshal and direct its forces. It was her intention to be among
the first to enter Bleiberg; for she was a soldier's daughter,
and could master the inherent fears of her sex.
That same morning a woman entered the lines and demanded an
audience. What passed between her and Madame the duchess others
never knew. She had also been apprised of the prisoners' escape,
but, confident that they would not be able to make a crossing,
she disdained pursuit. The prince had missed his wedding day; he
was no longer of use to her. As to the American, he would become
lost, and that would be the end of him.
But the Englishman. . . . He was conscience eternally barking at
her heels. The memory of that kiss still rankled in her mind,
and not an hour went by in which she did not chide herself for
the folly. How to get rid of him perplexed her. Here he was, in
the uniform of a Lieutenant-Colonel, ready to go to any lengths
at a sign from her.
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