The commander turned his eyes from the white, impassioned face of François and looked upon the quivering, ghastly visage of the brother who stood beside him. The fire that glowed in the eyes of François was missing in those of Louis.
The grizzled Prussian smiled, but imperceptibly. What he saw pleased him. Louis, the big one, the older of the two, trembled. It was only by the supremest effort that he maintained a pitiable show of defiance. His face was haggard and blanched with fear; there was a hunted, shifty look in his narrowed eyes. The general's smile developed. It proffered comfort, consolation, encouragement.
"And you," he said, almost gently, "have not you profited by the reflections of your three days of grace? Are you as stubborn as this mule of a brother, this foolish lad who spouts even poorer French than I address to you?"
François shot a quick, appealing glance at his big brother's face.
There were tiny rivulets of slaver at the corners of Louis's mouth.
"Louis!" he cried out sharply.
Louis lifted his sagging shoulders. "I have nothing to say," he said thickly, and with the set of his jaws François breathed deeply of relief.
"So!" said the general, shrugging his shoulders. "I am sorry. You are young to die, you two. To die on the field of battle,—ah, that is noble! To die with one's back to a wall, blindfolded, and to be covered with earth so loosely that starving dogs may scratch away to feast—But, no more. You have decided. You have had many hours in which to consider the alternative. You will be shot at daybreak."
The slight figure of François straightened, his chin went up. His thin, dirt-covered hands were tightly clenched.
"For France!" he murmured, lifting his eyes above the head of the
Prussian.
A vast shudder swept over the figure of Louis, a hoarse gasp broke through his lips. The commander leaned forward, fixing him with compelling eyes.