“But we’re going to?”
“Give ’em a trial, of course; and then shoot some of ’em anyway.”
“Monsieur de Trevenac?”
“Him pretty surely.”
A shudder jerked her shoulders together in a spasm; he wanted to still her under his hands; but he did not. He knew why she asked particularly about De Trevenac; she had seen him, heard his voice, perhaps; she could picture him standing blindfolded to be shot—upon her information. He would be her first slain.
Gerry had been a bit more brutal in his way of telling her than he had intended; indeed, now he did not understand himself. He had acted upon instinct to torment, rather than spare her, to see how she took it.
She raised her head proudly. She’s beautiful, he thought. The poise of that well-shaped head always was pretty; her shoulders, even under the khaki, were pretty; they were well-formed, firm shoulders. His gaze had dropped to them from her eyes; but now went back to her blue eyes again.
“Did you ever see—before—a man you had to kill?” she asked.
“A few times,” he said.
“The first man you killed?”