“If I had a little more time,” said François, “I could finish the thing.”
The jailer and his two deputies had but a dim understanding of François’ verses, but his practised and musical voice, his eloquent eyes, made them feel something, and the jailer, who had a streak of humanity in him, suddenly began winking his small, dull eyes.
“Excuse me,” said François, putting on his hat, “for wearing my hat in your august presence, but I am determined not to catch cold. And remember, I am Jean Leroux, the descendant, as the name indicates, of a family of Spanish hidalgos with large possessions in the Philippines.”
The jailer knew enough to understand that this was a joke, and he said, trying to laugh:
“Oh, yes, Jean Leroux, I won’t forget you, and I shall tell everybody who asks for you, ‘That fellow Leroux was a cool hand.’”
The jailer then produced a rope and proceeded to tie François’ hands behind his back. He was gentle about it, and asked François if it hurt.
“No,” replied François, “but I hope it won’t take the skin off.”
Then began a march through the dim corridor at the end of which were found half a dozen other unfortunates to be stood up against the wall before a firing squad.
All were calm except an old priest, who said with a tremulous smile to François, standing next him:
“I don’t see why I should tremble so, because I am already seventy-seven years old, and could not live much longer.”