The old priest lifted his bound hands and blessed and absolved them all, prisoners and murderers alike. Egmont laughed loudly at this, but François bent his head. Then he raised it and fixed his bright, dark eyes full on Egmont. The gaze seemed to fascinate, to accuse, to condemn, and to terrify him. Just then, a sudden, sharp, vagrant wind cleft the dun cloud of smoke, and a ray of pale splendor shone for a moment on the face of François. Egmont, in desperation, to escape the piercing eyes of François, shouted, “Fire!” A straggling volley rang out, and François and the old priest and the other four men fell forward prone to the ground. The little spark of life left their mangled bodies and sped with ever increasing light and glory to the other world.
The bodies were rolled in canvas, and thrown into the trench and hastily covered with earth, but the jailer, who had seen it all, observed that François was laid at the head of the trench.
Then was heard a quick, wild thunder of guns as if coming from the ground under their feet, and from two streets they saw a disorderly multitude of National Guards being driven before two red-legged columns of soldiers. The jailer, who was not without sense, saw that all was over. He ran back to the prison, raced up the stairs, and along the corridor, unlocking every door. Some of the prisoners, he thought, would save his life for that one act.
When he reached Diane’s door, it was the last, and he flung it wide. She was standing calmly in the middle of the cell, and asked:
“Have you come for me?”
“No,” replied the jailer. “The soldiers are here; listen to the wheels of the mitrailleuse down in the courtyard. I am trying to turn these prisoners loose before a fire breaks out.”
The man’s face was deadly pale, and with his hand he wiped drops from his dirty forehead. He had seen enough of the death of others not to like the prospect for himself.
“Such a pity,” he mumbled nervously; “not ten minutes ago six prisoners were shot, one of them an old, tottering priest, and another, Jean Leroux, the bravest—”
“Jean Leroux, did you say?” asked Diane, coming up close to him.
“Yes,” replied the jailer, “an actor and singer, and Colonel Egmont, as he calls himself now, though he was a marquis the other day, taunted Jean Leroux thirty seconds before he was shot.”