“David, you will do everything exactly as I decide,” De Saint Omer said more quietly, though his eyes continued to blaze imperiously, dominating my own. “Monsieur, I am quite capable of protecting the honor of my sister and the name of my family.”
“Do as he says, mon ami” said Bernoline, staring past me. “He has the right.”
“Mon commandant,” I repeated stiffly. “I shall obey.”
From that moment everything seemed to occur outside of me. I was there, but only to look on helplessly and incredulously,—an American watching the unfolding of some grim scene in the Middle Ages, a spectator before an older race, disciplined, proud, exact to their point of honor, as their old grim generations had held to that honor.
I, who could understand but the instinct of murder—blinding, groping, two-handed murder—was dominated, morally and physically, by the cold, punctilious, relentless decision in the burning eyes of De Saint Omer that sent a chill into my heart as though I were back in the days of the Sforzas and Malatestas. What was he going to do? What were they waiting for?
The next moment I knew. The gravel cried out; a shadow fell between us, and a poilu stood at attention.
“Mon commandant, you sent for me?”
It was Père Glorieux, soldier of God and France, gun in hand, knapsack on his back.
“You have your surplice?”