The prisoners were mute.  Their voices had been exhausted in vain protest.  All their life was concentrated in their eyes, looking around them in stupefaction. . . .  And was it possible that they would kill them in cold blood without hearing their testimony, without admitting the proofs of their innocence!

The certainty of approaching death soon gave almost all of them a noble serenity.  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.  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.