“There is an honor at such times—among men of our kind,” he said stubbornly.
Curiously enough, the phrase of Alan’s flashed into my mind; every man, his code. Even Von Holwitz, brute and bully, wished to die like an officer. I think De Saint Omer saw that, for he nodded, and I pocketed my revolver.
“Follow me,” he said peremptorily.
The three men moved across the garden, to a further niche in the wall. Père Glorieux, opening his knapsack, drew a surplice over his uniform and rose with a sudden majesty. De Saint Omer had fallen to his knees, while Von Holwitz waited, sitting some distance apart.
I had my arm around Bernoline, still supporting her broken strength, and at last I turned to her, screwing up courage to ask the question I feared.
“Bernoline!”
“Oui, mon ami?”
“What is it they’re going to do? What is going to happen?”
She tried to tell me, but couldn’t. Again I asked the question.
“You do not know?”