"The priest?" Marie suggested, taking a shawl from the hook behind the door.

"He might be wanting his firewood." She draped the shawl over her thin shoulders. "Early or not, Madame, he'll want a glass of brandy." She went out into the yard, letting in a gust of freezing air. «Bang,» Patrick said again, reckoning that the sight of splattering porridge was worth the risk of a cuff about the ear, but Lucille was too distracted to notice. It was unlike Father Defoy to be up so early, she thought, and an instinct made her cross to the hearth where she reached for the rifle, then she realised the weapon was gone.

She heard the gate squeal open, there was the mutter of a man's voice and suddenly Marie gave a shout of indignation that was abruptly cut short.

Lucille ran to the cupboard where Richard kept his other guns, but before she even had time to turn the key, the kitchen door banged wide open and a tall man with a face like old scratched leather was standing in the doorway where his breath misted in the cold air. He slowly raised a pistol so that it was pointing between Lucille's eyes, then, just as slowly, he thumbed the cock back. "Where is the Englishman?" he asked in a calm voice. Lucille said nothing. She could see there were a half-dozen other men in the yard. "Where is the Englishman?" The tall man asked again. "Papa" s shooting foxes! " Young Patrick explained helpfully. «Bang!» A small bespectacled man pushed past the man with the pistol. "Look after your child, Madame, " he ordered Lucille, then he stepped aside to let his six ragged followers into the kitchen. The small bespectacled man was the only one who did not carry a pistol, and the only one who did not have long pigtails framing his face. The last man through the door dragged Marie out of the cold and pushed her down on to a chair. "Who are you?" Lucille demanded of the small man, "Look after your child, Madame! " he insisted again.