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.
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