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 automobile with two of his aids, and the group disbanded.

The cruel uncertainty, the interminable moments before the official returned to his side, filled Desnoyers with dread.

“His Excellency is very gracious,” announced the lieutenant.  “He might have shot you, but he pardons you and yet you people say that we are savages!” . . .

With involuntary contempt, he further explained that he had conducted him thither fully expecting that he would be shot.  The General was planning to punish all the prominent residents of Villeblanche, and he had inferred, on his own initiative, that the owner of the castle must be one of them.

“Military duty, sir. . . .  War exacts it.”

After this excuse the petty official renewed his eulogies of His Excellency.  He was going to make his headquarters in Don Marcelo’s property, and on that account granted him his life.  He ought to thank him. . . .  Then again his face trembled with wrath.  He pointed to some bodies lying near the road.  They were the corpses of Uhlans, covered with some cloaks from which were protruding the enormous soles of their boots.

“Plain murder!” he exclaimed.  “A crime for which the guilty are going to pay dearly!”

His indignation made him consider the death of four soldiers as an unheard-of and monstrous outrage—­as though in was only the enemy ought to fall, keeping safe and sound the lives of his compatriots.

A band of infantry commanded by an officer approached.  As their ranks opened, Desnoyers saw the gray uniforms roughly pushing forward some of the inhabitants.  Their clothes were torn and some had blood on face and hands.  He recognized them one by one as they were lined up against the mud wall, at twenty paces from the firing squad of soldiers—­the mayor, the priest, the forest guard, and some rich villagers whose houses he had seen falling in flames.

“They are going to shoot them . . . in order to prevent any doubt about it,” the lieutenant explained.  “I wanted you to see this.  It will serve as an object lesson.  In this way, you will feel more appreciative of the leniency of His Excellency.”