The Connaught Rangers would be hunting the French survivors in the round shot-shattered fort, the long, thin blades searching the broken timber and he grinned in the night at the thought of a fight well fought? That he and I had seen this thing, standing at the door of that brick kitchen in the Rue Royale, two wet shriveled things that had been alive, mother and daughter in one another's arms, the murdered pair on the kitchen floor.