ylinders. Someone at their head was pointing
out the buildings into whose broken windows were to be thrown the
lozenges and liquid streams which would produce catastrophe with
lightning rapidity.

Out of one of these flaming buildings two men, who seemed but bundles
of rags, were being dragged by some Germans. Above the blue sleeves of
their military cloaks Don Marcelo could distinguish blanched faces and
eyes immeasurably distended with suffering. Their legs were dragging on
the ground, sticking out between the tatters of their red pantaloons.
One of them still had on his kepis. Blood was gushing from different
parts of their bodies and behind them, like white serpents, were
trailing their loosened bandages. They were wounded Frenchmen,
stragglers who had remained in the village because too weak to keep up
with the retreat. Perhaps they had joined the group which, finding its
escape cut off, had attempted that insane resistance.

Wishing to make that matter more clearly understood, Desnoyers looked at
the official beside him, attempting to speak; but the officer silenced
him instantly: "French sharpshooters in disguise who are going to get
the punishment they deserve." The German bayonets were sunk deep into
their bodies. Then blows with the guns fell on the head of one of them
. . . and these blows were repeated with dull thumps upon their skulls,
crackling as they burst open.

Again the old man wondered what his fate would be. Where was this
lieutenant taking him across such visions of horror? . . .

They had reached the outskirts of the village, where the dragoons had
built their barricade. The carts were still there, but at one side of
the road. They climbed out of the automobile, and he saw a group of
officers in gray, with sheathed helmets like the others. The one who had
brought him to this place was standing rigidly erect with one hand to
his visor, speaking to a military man standing a few paces in front of
the others. He looked at this man, who was scrutinizing him with his
little hard blue eyes that had carved his spare, furrowed countenance
with lines. He must be the general. His arrogant and piercing gaze was
sweeping him from head to foot. Don Marcelo felt a presentiment that his
life was hanging on this examination; should an evil suggestion, a
cruel caprice flash across this brain, he was surely lost. The general
shrugged his shoulders and said a few words in a contemptuous tone, then
entered his au