"Why cannot we be always men? Why must we have two faces? Oh, Monsieur, go in and talk with them! Are they married men? Have they wives and children—parents perhaps?"
"They are all three unmarried," answered the priest. "But at any rate you might let them have this one night."
"Impossible! The order says, 'before vespers,' and we have to march at daybreak. Go to them, Monsieur, go to them!"
"I will go; but remember, Mr Lieutenant, not to go out in your shirt-sleeves, when you go, or you might meet with the same fate as they. For it is the coat, you know, which makes the soldier."
And the priest went.
Von Bleichroden wrote the last lines of his letter in a state of great agitation. Then he sealed it and rang for the orderly.
"Post this letter," he said to him, "and send in the sergeant."
The sergeant came.
"Three times three is twenty-nine—no, three times seven is. Sergeant, take three times—take seven-and-twenty men and shoot the prisoners within an hour. Here is the order!"
"Shoot them?" asked the sergeant hesitatingly.