moment recognized that all this was in her honor; but afterwards, she
wished to believe that the triumphal reception was for herself.... She
was marching between guns, accompanied by bugle-call and drum-beat,
like a queen.

To her defender, she appeared taller than ever. She seemed to have
grown a palm higher because of her intense, emotional uplift. Her
theatrical soul was moved just as when she used to present herself on
the boards to receive applause. All these men had arisen in the middle
of the night and were there on her account: the horns and the drums
were sounding in order to greet her. Discipline was keeping their
countenances grave and cold but she had the certain consciousness that
they were finding her beautiful, and that back of many immovable eyes,
desire was asserting itself.

If there remained a shred of fear of losing her life, it disappeared
under the caress of this false glory.... To die contemplated by so many
valiant men who were rendering her the greatest of honors! She felt the
necessity of being adorable, of falling into an artistic pose as though
she were on a stage.

She was passing between the two masses of men, head erect, stepping
firmly with the high-spirited tread of a goddess-huntress, sometimes
casting a glance on some of the hundreds of eyes fixed upon her. The
illusion of her triumph made her advance as upright and serene as
though passing the troops in review.

"Good heavens!... What poise!" exclaimed a young officer behind the
lawyer, admiring Freya's serenity.

Upon approaching the post, some one read a brief document, a summary of
the sentence,--three lines to apprise her that justice was about to be
fulfilled.

The only thing about this rapid notification that annoyed her was the
fear that the trumpets and drums would cease. But they continued
sounding and their martial music was as comforting to her ears as a
very intoxicating wine slipping through her lips.

A platoon of corporals and soldiers (twelve rifles) detached themselves
from the double military mass. A sub-officer with a blond beard, small,
delicate, was commanding it with an unsheathed sword. Freya
contemplated him a moment, finding him interesting, while the young man
avoided her glance.

With the gesture of a tragedy queen, she repelled the white
handkerchief that they were offering her to bandage her eyes. She did
not need it. The nuns took leave of her forever. As soon as she was
alone, two gendarmes c