Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp!
Around the bend in the road they came, a dozen soldiers whose uniforms and spiked helmets were a dull gray, like the dust they stirred up underfoot. They marched in a little column of twos, with a corporal in command at one side. In their midst was the condemned prisoner.
The watching Buck was moved to great pity at his old friend’s haggard and unkempt appearance. There were great bluish hollows under his eyes, his cheeks were unnaturally pale, and the growth of a two-weeks’ beard made his face almost unrecognizable. But, although he knew that they were taking him to his death, Bob marched with shoulders squared and his head thrown back. It would never do for an American to show fear before foreigners.
“Zum Recht! Halt!” (Wheel to the right! Halt!) snapped the corporal.
The firing squad was now on the other side of the wall from Buck, standing like so many statues, with their rifles stiffly presented.
The corporal grasped Bob roughly by the arm and backed him up against the wall.
“If you wish to pray, do so now,” he said in German. “Make it brief.”
Bob closed his eyes for a few moments, while he thought of his old friends away back in New York, wondering what had become of him.
“I am ready, corporal,” said he, shortly.
His hands were bound tightly together behind his back and a bandage tied over his eyes.