But even as he spoke the sword of the executioner flashed like lightning—a dull and heavy blow followed—and a terrible shudder ran through all the crowd.
The young man's shriek was lost in the general cry arising from twenty thousand palpitating breasts at once.
He had arrived a moment too late—Talhouet was dead: and, as he lifted his eyes, he saw in the hand of the headsman the bleeding head of his friend—and then, in the nobility of his heart, he felt that, one being dead, they all should die. That not one of them would accept a pardon which arrived a head too late. He looked around him; Du Couëdic mounted in his turn, clothed with his black mantle, bareheaded and bare-necked.
Gaston remembered that he also had a black mantle, and that his head and neck were bare, and he laughed convulsively.
He saw what remained for him to do, as one sees some wild landscape by the lightning's livid gleam—'tis awful, but grand.
Du Couëdic bends down; but, as he bends, he cries—"See how they recompense the services of faithful soldiers!—see how you keep your promises, oh ye cowards of Bretagne!"
Two assistants force him on his knees; the sword of the executioner whirls round and gleams again, and Du Couëdic lies beside Talhouet.
The executioner takes up the head; shows it to the people; and then places it at one corner of the scaffold, opposite that of Talhouet.
"Who next?" asks Waters.
"It matters little," answers a voice, "provided that Monsieur de Pontcalec be the last, according to his sentence."