On entering the salon, he did not at first recognize His Excellency.  He saw a man sitting at the piano wearing no clothing but a Japanese dressing gown—­a woman’s rose-colored kimono, embroidered with golden birds, belonging to Chichi.  At any other time, he would have burst into roars of laughter at beholding this scrawny, bony warrior with the cruel eyes, with his brawny braceleted arms appearing through the loose sleeves.  After taking his bath, the Count had delayed putting on his uniform, luxuriating in the silky contact of the feminine tunic so like his Oriental garments in Berlin.  Blumhardt did not betray the slightest astonishment at the aspect of his general.  In the customary attitude of military erectness, he spoke in his own language while the Count listened with a bored air, meanwhile passing his fingers idly over the keys.

A shaft of sunlight from a nearby window was enveloping the piano and musician in a halo of gold.  Through the window, too, was wafting the poetry of the sunset—­the rustling of the leaves, the hushed song of the birds and the hum of the insects whose transparent wings were glowing like sparks in the last rays of the sun.  The General, annoyed that his dreaming melancholy should be interrupted by this inopportune visit, cut short the Commandant’s story with a gesture of command and a word . . . one word only.  He said no more.  He took two puffs from a Turkish cigarette that was slowly scorching the wood of the piano, and again ran his hands over the ivory keys, catching up the broken threads of the vague and tender improvisation inspired by the gloaming.

“Thanks, Your Excellency,” said the gratified Desnoyers, surmising his magnanimous response.

The Commandant had disappeared, nor could the Frenchman find him outside the castle.  A soldier was pacing up and down near the iron gates in order to transmit commands, and the guards were pushing back with blows from their guns, a screaming group of women and tiny children.  The entrance was entirely cleared! undoubtedly the crowds were returning to the village after the General’s pardon. . . .  Desnoyers was half way down the avenue when he heard a howling sound composed of many voices, a hair-raising shriek such as only womanly desperation can send forth.  At the same time, the air was vibrating with snaps, the loud cracking sound that he knew from the day before.  Shots! . . .  He imagined that on the other side of the iron railing there were some writhing bodies struggling to escape from powerful arms, and others fleeing with bounds of fear.  He saw running toward him a horror-stricken, sobbing woman with her hands to her head.  It was the wife of the Keeper who a little while before had joined the desperate group of women.

“Oh, don’t go on, Master,” she called stopping his hurried step.  “They have killed him. . . .  They have just shot him.”

Don Marcelo stood rooted to the ground.  Shot! . . . and after the General’s pardon! . . .  Suddenly he ran back to the castle, hardly knowing what he was doing, and soon reached the salon.  His Excellency was still at the piano humming in low tones, his eyes moistened by the poesy of his dreams.  But the breathless old gentleman did not stop to listen.