“I fired as long as I was able to do so,” Dominique quietly replied. The admission was scarcely necessary, for he was black with powder, wet with sweat, and the blood from the wound in his shoulder had trickled down and stained his clothing. [Pg 87] [Pg 87] “Very well,” the officer repeated. “You will be shot two hours hence.” Françoise uttered no cry. She clasped her hands and raised them above her head in a gesture of mute despair. Her action was not lost upon the officer. Two soldiers had led Dominique away to an adjacent room, where their orders were to guard him and not lose sight of him. The girl had sunk upon a chair; her strength had failed her, her legs refused to support her; she was denied the relief of tears, it seemed as if her emotion was strangling her. The officer continued to examine her attentively, and finally addressed her: “Is that young man your brother?” he inquired. She shook her head in negation. He was as rigid and unbending as ever, without the suspicion of a smile on his face. Then, after an interval of silence, he spoke again: “Has he been living in the neighbourhood long?” [Pg 88] [Pg 88] She answered yes, by another motion of the head. “Then he must be well acquainted with the woods about here?” This time she made a verbal answer. “Yes, sir,” she said, looking at him with some astonishment. He said nothing more, but turned on his heel, requesting that the mayor of the village should be brought before him. But Françoise had risen from her chair, a faint tinge of colour on her cheeks, believing that she had caught the significance of his questions, and with renewed hope she ran off to look for her father. As soon as the firing had ceased Father Merlier had hurriedly descended by the
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