"He's dead.... Poor fellow!... He's dead...."
The guns roared on the frontier.
"Are you coming, Philippe?" asked old Morestal.
"I'm coming, father," he said.
Very quickly, he walked out on the terrace and knelt beside his father, against the balusters. Marthe knelt down behind him and wept at the thought of what he must be suffering. Nevertheless, she did not doubt but that, notwithstanding his despair, he was acting in all conscience.
The captain said, clearly, and the order was repeated to the end of the garden:
"Fire as you please.... Sight at three hundred yards...."
There were a few seconds of solemn waiting ... then the terrible word:
"Fire!"