We had reached a small oak which grew upon the hillside, and one end of the line was thrown over a lower branch.
“One minute to shrive yourself, citizen,” called a rude voice.
I looked out over the hillside. The moon was sailing high in the heavens, and I noticed that the flock of sheep was moving down toward us. Just above us was the line of sentinels, and the fires of the camp gleamed along the road below. I could see the soldiers crowded about them, for the night was chill; could hear their jests and laughter. The tragedy which was enacting here on the hillside, and which meant so much to me, concerned them not at all. They would go their way, the world would wag along, only I would no longer be a part of it. My mother—this would be her death, too—the death of all her hopes, all her ambitions. She would have nothing more to live for. I wondered what she was doing at this moment. Did some message of the spirit warn her that her only son was in deadly peril? Another woman would miss me—but aside from these my disappearance would be scarce noted. It would create not even a ripple on the great ocean of the world. My life would count for nothing.
I thought of all this, and more, which I cannot set down here—and commended my soul to God. So this was the end! How little I had foreseen it when I had ridden so bravely out from Beaufort! How deeply I had lived in those three days! They seemed to count more than all the rest of my life——
“The time is up, citizen!” called the same rude voice.
Dubosq was at my side.
“Courage!” he whispered. “It is soon over!”
“Adieu, my friend,” I said. “Remember your promise.”
“I do remember it. Trust me.”
I raised my head. At least I would die worthily.