Although death stared him in the face, Gaston calmly considered which would be the best spot to plunge into, and commended his soul to God.
“He will stand there until we go after him,” said a gendarme: “so we might as well advance.”
Gaston had finished his prayer.
He flung his pistols in the direction of the gendarmes: he was ready.
He made the sign of the cross, then, with outstretched arms, dashed head foremost into the Rhone.
The violence of his spring detached the few remaining roots of the old tree; it oscillated a moment, whirled over, and then drifted away.
The spectators uttered a cry of horror and pity; anger seemed to have deserted them in their turn.
“That is an end of him,” muttered one of the gendarmes. “It is useless for one to fight against the Rhone; his body will be picked up at Arles to-morrow.”
The hussars seemed really remorseful at the tragic fate of the brave, handsome young man, whom a moment before they had pursued with so much bitter zeal. They admired his spirited resistance, his courage, and especially his resignation, his resolution to die.
True French soldiers, their sympathies were now all upon the side of the vanquished, and every man of them would have done all in his power to assist in saving the drowning man, and aiding his escape.