an execution.

Laguitte, squarely poised on his infirm legs and seemingly turned to
stone, stood waiting. The two men looked at each other fixedly. In
Burle's blurred eyes there arose a supplication--a prayer for pardon.
He knew why he was going to die, and like a child he promised not to
transgress again. But the major's eyes remained implacable; honor had
spoken, and he silenced his emotion and his pity.

"Let it end," he muttered between his teeth.

Then it was he who attacked. Like a flash of lightning his sword flamed,
flying from right to left, and then with a resistless thrust it pierced
the breast of the captain, who fell like a log without even a groan.

Laguitte had released his hold upon his sword and stood gazing at that
poor old rascal Burle, who was stretched upon his back with his fat
stomach bulging out.

"Oh, my God! My God!" repeated the major furiously and despairingly, and
then he began to swear.

They led him away, and, both his legs failing him, he had to be
supported on either side, for he could not even use his stick.

Two months later the ex-major was crawling slowly along in the sunlight
down a lonely street of Vauchamp, when he again found himself face to
face with Mme Burle and little Charles. They were both in deep mourning.
He tried to avoid them, but he now only walked with difficulty, and they
advanced straight upon him without hurrying or slackening their steps.
Charles still had the same gentle, girlish, frightened face, and Mme
Burle retained her stern, rigid demeanor, looking even harsher than
ever.

As Laguitte shrank into the corner of a doorway to leave the whole
street to them, she abruptly stopped in front of him and stretched out
her hand. He hesitated and then took it and pressed it, but he trembled
so violently that he made the old lady's arm shake. They exchanged
glances in silence.

"Charles," said the boy's grandmother at last, "shake hands with the
major." The boy obeyed without understanding. The major, who was very
pale, barely ventured to touch the child's frail fingers; then, feeling
that he ought to speak, he stammered out: "You still intend to send him
to Saint-Cyr?"

"Of course, when he is old enough," answered Mme Burle.

But during the following week Charles was carried off by typhoid fever.
One evening his grandmother had again read him the story of the Vengeur
to make him bold, and in the night he had become delirious. The poor
little fellow died o