It was useless to complain. Only one rich countryman, famous
for his avarice, was whimpering desperately, saying over and over, "I do
not wish to die. . . . I do not want to die!"
Trembling and with eyes overflowing with tears, Desnoyers hid himself
behind his implacable guide. He knew them all, he had battled with them
all, and repented now of his former wrangling. The mayor had a red stain
on his forehead from a long skin wound. Upon his breast fluttered a
tattered tricolor; the municipality had placed it there that he might
receive the invaders who had torn most of it away. The priest was
holding his little round body as erect as possible, wishing to embrace
in a look of resignation the victims, the executioners, earth and
heaven. He appeared larger than usual and more imposing. His black
girdle, broken by the roughness of the soldiers, left his cassock loose
and floating. His waving, silvery hair was dripping blood, spotting with
its red drops the white clerical collar.
Upon seeing him cross the fatal field with unsteady step, because of his
obesity, a savage roar cut the tragic silence. The unarmed soldiers,
who had hastened to witness the execution, greeted the venerable old man
with shouts of laughter. "Death to the priest!" . . . The fanaticism of
the religious wars vibrated through their mockery. Almost all of them
were devout Catholics or fervent Protestants, but they believed only
in the priests of their own country.
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