François, shaken and near to dying of the horror he had witnessed, sagged to his knees. They dragged him forward,—and one of them kicked him.
"I will tell! I will tell!" he screamed. "Let me alone! Keep your hands off of me! I will tell, God help me, general!"
He staggered, white-faced and pitiful, to the edge of the table, which he grasped with trembling, straining hands.
"Be quick about it," snarled the general, leaning forward eagerly.
Like a cat, François sprang. He had gauged the distance well. He had figured it all out as he stood by and watched his brother die.
His fingers clutched the knife.
"I will!" he cried out in an ecstasy of joy.
To the hasp sank the long blade into the heart of the Prussian commander.
Whirling, the French boy threw his arms on high and screamed into the faces of the stupefied soldiers:
"Vive la France! One hundred thousand men! There they lie! Ha-ha!
I—I, François Dupré,—I have sent them all to hell! Wait for me,
Louis! I am coming!"