He had to leave the bridge.  Several soldiers were passing bearing the wounded to the edifice in spite of the fact that it was falling in ruins.  Suddenly he was sprinkled from head to foot, as if the earth had opened to make way for a waterspout.  A shell had fallen into the moat, throwing up an enormous column of water, making the carp sleeping in the mud fly into fragments, breaking a part of the edges and grinding to powder the white balustrades with their great urns of flowers.

He started to run on with the blindness of terror, when he suddenly saw before him the same little round crystal, examining him coolly.  It was the Junker, the officer of the monocle. . . .  With the end of his revolver, the German pointed to two pails a short distance away, ordering Desnoyers to fill them from the lagoon and give the water to the men overcome by the sun.  Although the imperious tone admitted of no reply, Don Marcelo tried, nevertheless, to resist.  He received a blow from the revolver on his chest at the same time that the lieutenant slapped him in the face.  The old man doubled over, longing to weep, longing to perish; but no tears came, nor did life escape from his body under this affront, as he wished. . . .  With the two buckets in his hands, he found himself dipping up water from the canal, carrying it the length of the file, giving it to men who, each in his turn, dropped his gun to gulp the liquid with the avidity of panting beasts.

He was no longer afraid of the shrill shrieks of invisible bodies.  His one great longing was to die.  He was strongly convinced that he was going to die; his sufferings were too great; there was no longer any place in the world for him.

He had to pass by breaches opened in the wall by the bursting shells.  There was no natural object to arrest the eye looking through these gaps.  Hedges and groves had been swept away or blotted out by the fire of the artillery.  He descried at the foot of the highway near his castle, several of the attacking columns which had crossed the Marne.  The advancing forces were coming doggedly on, apparently unmoved by the steady, deadly fire of the Germans.  Soon they were rushing forward with leaps and bounds, by companies, shielding themselves behind bits of upland in bends of the road, in order to send forth their blasts of death.

The old man was now fired with a desperate resolution;—­since he had to die, let a French ball kill him!  And he advanced very erect with his two pails among those men shooting, lying down.  Then, with a sudden fear, he stood still hanging his head; a second thought had told him that the bullet which he might receive would be one danger less for the enemy.  It would be better for them to kill the Germans . . . and he began to cherish the hope that he might get possession of some weapon from those dying around him, and fall upon that Junker who had struck him.

He was filling his pails for the third time, and murderously contemplating the lieutenant’s back when something occurred so absurd and unnatural that it reminded him of the fantastic flash of the cinematograph;—­the officer’s head suddenly disappeared; two jets of blood spurted from his severed neck and his body collapsed like an empty sack.