"Shot in the throat," replied the Subaltern laconically.
Savrola had turned very white; he was fond of Moret and they had long been friends. A feeling of disgust at the whole struggle came over him; he repressed it; this was no time for regrets. "You mean that the crowd will accept no surrender?"
"I mean they have probably massacred them all by now."
"What time was Moret killed?"
"A quarter-past twelve."
Savrola took up a paper that lay beside him on the table. "This was sent off at half-past twelve."
Tiro looked at it. It was signed Moret and ran as follows: Am preparing for final assault. All well.
"It is a forgery," said the Subaltern simply. "I started myself before the half-hour, and Señor Moret had been dead ten minutes then. Somebody has assumed the command."
"By Jove," said Savrola getting up from the table. "Kreutze!" He caught up his hat and cane. "Come on; he will most certainly murder Molara, and probably the others, if he is not stopped. I must go there myself."
"What?" said Renos. "Most irregular; your place is here."