Surrounded by soldiers, Barney Custer walked from the presence of the military court.  It was to him as though he moved in a strange world of dreams.  He saw the look of satisfaction upon the face of Peter of Blentz as he passed him, and the open sneer of Maenck.  As yet he did not fully realize what it all meant—­that he was marching to his death!  For the last time he was looking upon the faces of his fellow men; for the last time he had seen the sun rise, never again to see it set.

He was to be “destroyed.”  He had heard that expression used many times in connection with useless horses, or vicious dogs.  Mechanically he drew a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it.  There was no bravado in the act.  On the contrary it was done almost unconsciously.  The soldiers marched him through the streets of Burgova.  The men were entirely impassive—­even so early in the war they had become accustomed to this grim duty.  The young officer who commanded them was more nervous than the prisoner—­it was his first detail with a firing squad.  He looked wonderingly at Barney, expecting momentarily to see the man collapse, or at least show some sign of terror at his close impending fate; but the American walked silently toward his death, puffing leisurely at his cigarette.

At last, after what seemed a long time, his guard turned in at a large gateway in a brick wall surrounding a factory.  As they entered Barney saw twenty or thirty men in civilian dress, guarded by a dozen infantrymen.  They were standing before the wall of a low brick building.  Barney noticed that there were no windows in the wall.  It suddenly occurred to him that there was something peculiarly grim and sinister in the appearance of the dead, blank surface of weather-stained brick.  For the first time since he had faced the military court he awakened to a full realization of what it all meant to him—­he was going to be lined up against that ominous brick wall with these other men—­they were going to shoot them.

A momentary madness seized him.  He looked about upon the other prisoners and guards.  A sudden break for liberty might give him temporary respite.  He could seize a rifle from the nearest soldier, and at least have the satisfaction of selling his life dearly.  As he looked he saw more soldiers entering the factory yard.

A sudden apathy overwhelmed him.  What was the use?  He could not escape.  Why should he wish to kill these soldiers?  It was not they who were responsible for his plight—­they were but obeying orders.  The close presence of death made life seem very desirable.  These men, too, desired life.  Why should he take it from them uselessly.  At best he might kill one or two, but in the end he would be killed as surely as though he took his place before the brick wall with the others.

He noticed now that these others evinced no inclination to contest their fates.  Why should he, then?  Doubtless many of them were as innocent as he, and all loved life as well.  He saw that several were weeping silently.  Others stood with bowed heads gazing at the hard-packed earth of the factory yard.  Ah, what visions were their eyes beholding for the last time!  What memories of happy firesides!  What dear, loved faces were limned upon that sordid clay!