"Let me alone! Keep away from me! God in heaven, why do they leave that Jean Picard down here with us—"
"You have seen hundreds of dead men, Louis. All of them were heroes. All of them were brave. It was glorious to die as they died. Why should we be afraid of death?"
"But they died like men, not like rats. They died smiling. They had no time to think."
And then he fell to moaning. His teeth rattled. He turned upon his face and for many minutes beat upon the stone steps with his clenched hands, choking out appeals to his Maker.
François stood. His hot, unblinking eyes tried to pierce the darkness. Tears of shame and pity for this big brother burnt their way out and ran down his cheeks. He was wondering. He was striving to put away the horrid doubt that was searing his soul: the doubt of Louis!
The dreary age wore on. Louis slept! The little brother sat with his chin in his hands, his heart cold, his eyes closed. He prayed.
Then came the sound of the heavy object being dragged away from the door at the top of the steps. They both sprang to their feet. An oblong patch of drab, gray light appeared overhead. Sunrise!
"Come! It is time," called down a hoarse voice. Three guns hung over the edge of the opening. They were taking no chances.
"Louis!" cried François sharply.
Louis straightened his gaunt figure. The light from above fell upon his face. It was white,—deathly white,—but transfigured. A great light flamed in his eyes.