All the time she went on murmuring, between her moans: "My lovely little boy—my lovely little boy!..."
Now and then she clenched one hand in the other or struck them both against her forehead.
While we were standing by looking at her my lieutenant came up. He tried to soothe her and patted her shoulder, but every time he touched her she shuddered and seemed to shrink in sudden terror.
"My poor little boy!" she moaned. "They killed him. He was only six years old and was lying in his bed. 'Pray to God,' I cried to him; 'pray to God.' I was lying on the floor by his bed and saw him fold his hands in prayer, while he gazed at me in terror.
"But he who was standing over him did not spare him. He stabbed him in the breast with his bayonet, and he kicked me along the floor. My husband was lying murdered on the doorstep; his face was red with blood; his forehead was cut open."
Her words came in rapid, violent gasps, while she pressed her hands against her eyes as if to shut out all the horror she saw before her.
"But there is justice in the world," she screamed. "There is justice. I shall find him; I shall find him; I shall find him!..."
Then she grew a little calmer, and the lieutenant and I stood whispering to each other about what we had just seen and about what we had heard about her.
V—SHE FINDS AT LAST THE MAN WHO MURDERED
Some time after a convoy of prisoners passed by. There were about two hundred men.