Outside of Germany, everything was
despicable--even their own religion.
The mayor and the priest changed their places in the file, seeking one
another. Each, with solemn courtesy, was offering the other the central
place in the group.
"Here, your Honor, is your place as mayor--at the head of all."
"No, after you, Monsieur le cure."
They were disputing for the last time, but in this supreme moment each
one was wishing to yield precedence to the other.
Instinctively they had clasped hands, looking straight ahead at the
firing squad, that had lowered its guns in a rigid, horizontal line.
Behind them sounded laments--"Good-bye, my children. . . . Adieu, life!
. . . I do not wish to die! . . . I do not want to die! . . ."
The two principal men felt the necessity of saying something, of closing
the page of their existence with an affirmation.
"Vive la Republique!" cried the mayor.
"Vive la France!" said the priest.
Desnoyers thought that both had said the same thing. Two uprights
flashed up above their heads--the arm of the priest making the sign of
the cross, and the sabre of the commander of the shooters, glistening
at the same instant. . . . A dry, dull thunderclap, followed by some
scattering, tardy shots.
Don Marcelo's compassion for that forlorn cluster of massacred humanity
was intensified on beholding the grotesque forms which many assumed
in the moment of death.
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