“Aim!”
“Good-bye, Harry,” whispered Frank.
“Good-bye, old fellow,” rejoined his brother. Each was glad to notice that there was not even a tremor in the other’s voice.
“Fi——”
The command was never finished.
The firing squad, had their fingers on their triggers when,—with a crash that caused them to drop their weapons in sheer amazement,—a shell ripped through the roof of the garrison trial room from which Rogero stood sombrely watching them. It exploded the next moment with a force that showered the boys with splinters and debris and killed several of the firing squad outright.
“FI——!” THE COMMAND WAS NEVER FINISHED.
All thought of the execution was forgotten in the mad panic into which the garrison was immediately thrown. Men rushed about and officers shouted commands,—the very suddenness of the attack seemed to have paralyzed the whole barracks. In the midst of the uproar and turmoil Rogero,—his face ablaze with hate and rage,—rushed into the courtyard. He had been unhurt in the damage the shell had done to the roof as it ripped through and was mad with fury. He struck right and left with the flat of his sword at the fleeing men and then, with a bellow of fury, made at Frank and Harry who, helpless and half-stunned by the explosion of the shell, had reeled back against the wall.
“Yankee pigs! You escaped the firing squad but I’ll run you through if it’s the last act I perform on earth;” he yelled, rushing at them with his drawn blade. The next minute it was struck out of his hand and he himself knocked sprawling by a blow on the point of the chin.