implore their
testimony--sad women, equally dirty, their ragged garments smelling of
fire, poverty and death. All assented, adding their outcries to those of
the mother. Some even went so far as to say that the overgrown boy was
only sixteen . . . fifteen! And to this feminine chorus was added the
wailing of the little ones looking at their brother with eyes distended
with terror.

The Commandant examined the prisoner while he listened to the official.
An employee of the township had said carelessly that the child was about
twenty, never dreaming that with this inaccuracy he was causing his
death.

"It was a lie!" repeated the mother guessing instinctively what they
were saying. "That man made a mistake. My boy is robust and, therefore,
looks older than he is, but he is not twenty. . . . The gentleman
from the castle who knows him can tell you so. Is it not so, Monsieur
Desnoyers?"

Since, in her maternal desperation, she had appealed to his protection,
Don Marcelo believed that he ought to intervene, and so he spoke to
the Commandant. He knew this youth very well (he did not ever remember
having seen him before) and believed that he really was under twenty.

"And even if he were of age," he added, "is that a crime to shoot a man
for?"

Blumhardt did not reply. Since he had recovered his functions of
command, he ignored absolutely Don Marcelo's existence. He was about to
say something, to give an order, but hesitated. It might be better to
consult His Excellency . . . and seeing that he was going toward the
castle, Desnoyers marched by his side.

"Commandant, this cannot be," he commenced saying. "This lacks common
sense. To shoot a man on the suspicion that he may be twenty years old!"

But the Commandant remained silent and continued on his way. As they
crossed the bridge, they heard the sound of the piano--a good omen,
Desnoyers thought. The aesthete who had so touched him with his
impassioned voice, was going to say the saving word.

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