Bitter took the note, folded it carefully and slipped it into his letter-case.
All trace of anger and indignation had left the faces of the French. Gravely they saluted the German as he went out, with the respect that they would have shown in the presence of death. But even more than the man who went out it was the sergeant whom they saluted, for they felt how much this death-sentence had cost him.
Bent down, worn out by this scene, in which he had had to bear the scorn of the French, Bitter gained the door. He was no longer the Bitter that had entered even twenty-four hours ago, arrogant, with head erect and flashing eyes, the uncontested master before whom all must give way. This time he was going to meet his destiny, the miserable man; that on which he had built all his hopes, that bit of paper, to possess which he had degraded his soul; those few lines contained his death-warrant.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
History does not tell what happened to Bitter—if he is still living, if he finished his race as a hero with an unknown death, or if, after having shown himself a coward of cowards, he was killed like a dog while begging for a life which was not worth the meanness he committed to preserve it.
