The adjutant withdrew, and the general returned to the window to look down on the surging crowd below. He saw that his adjutant had left the house and walked toward a group of women standing at some distance from the others and apparently looking for him. He saw that his adjutant spoke to them, and that the women then turned around and made a sign to the others.
All the women immediately knelt down, and, raising their folded hands to heaven, began to sing in loud and solemn notes a pious hymn, a hymn of mercy, addressed to God and the Holy Virgin.
The general crossed himself involuntarily, and, perhaps unwillingly, folded his hands as if for silent prayer.
The door opened and the adjutant reentered.
“What does this mean?” exclaimed the general. “I ordered you to send the women home, and instead of that, they remain here and sing a plaintive hymn.”
“General, the women persist in their request. They persist in their demand for an interview with your excellency in order to hear from your own lips whether it is really impossible for them to obtain a—reprieve—a pardon for Palm. They declare they will not leave the place until they have spoken to your excellency, even should you cause your cannon to be pointed against them.”
“Ah, bah! I shall not afford them the pleasure of becoming martyrs,” exclaimed St. Hilaire, sullenly. “Come, I will put an end to the whole affair. I will myself go down and send them home.”
He beckoned his adjutant to follow him, and went with hasty steps down into the market-place, and appeared in the midst of the women.
The hymn died away, but the women did not rise from their knees; they only turned their eyes, which had hitherto been raised to heaven, to the general, and extended their folded hands toward him.
At this moment a dusty travelling-coach drove through the dense crowd on the main street, and entered the market-place to stop in front of the large hotel situated there. A pale young woman leaned out of the carriage, and looked wonderingly at the strange spectacle presented to her eyes.