The General had remained standing at the door, to which he had accompanied the others, and listened mechanically to their steps upon the stone floor of the hall, then under the window of his room, and passing away down the street.
Now he could hear nothing more, excepting the storm which was raging without. They were gone, these men of the highest honour, the representatives of his class, gone after pronouncing sentence upon the dishonoured and unworthy member of that class.
And that sentence was--death.
Death by his own hand.
And his father must announce it to him.
No! not that; only confirm what he must have already said to himself; only say: "Your father, agrees to what you have already decided upon, and may God have mercy upon your soul!"
He pressed his hands together, and heavy cold drops of sweat stood on his deeply-furrowed brow.
"Must it be? oh God, my God, have mercy upon me! must it be?"
But no word of comfort or hope came to him. All was dumb within him, in his burning head, in his panting breast, and through that dumb silence only the fearful words: "It must be!"
When August entered the room at the sound of the bell, the General was sitting, turned away from him, at his writing-table, leaning his head upon his hand. On the round table behind him, on which he used always to put his finished papers, stood a box, and on the box lay a letter.