There came a quick report and a cry.
While one might count five, the corporal stood erect, holding the cross, then slowly his body sank, collapsed, crumpled in a heap and he fell huddled down the pulpit steps—dead.
A howl of rage answered the shot and a dozen men rushed forward and leaped over the altar rail. The curé made no resistance and a bayonet thrust through his shoulder pinned him to the ground.
"Why did you shoot?" cried the officer, stamping his foot angrily.
The curé looked up calmly.
"Shall a man be less a patriot for his Church than for his country?" he asked, simply.
"Drag him out!" came the order.
In the market place, a few steps from the church, stood the great wooden cross. They dragged the curé there and set him against it, binding his hands.
Jacques Oopsdiel, who was one of the acolytes of the church, saw the curé, with the blood flowing over his white vestments, and ran forward to him with a cry, throwing his arms about him.