on his
uniform, luxuriating in the silky contact of the feminine tunic so like
his Oriental garments in Berlin. Blumhardt did not betray the slightest
astonishment at the aspect of his general. In the customary attitude
of military erectness, he spoke in his own language while the Count
listened with a bored air, meanwhile passing his fingers idly over the
keys.

A shaft of sunlight from a nearby window was enveloping the piano and
musician in a halo of gold. Through the window, too, was wafting the
poetry of the sunset--the rustling of the leaves, the hushed song of the
birds and the hum of the insects whose transparent wings were glowing
like sparks in the last rays of the sun. The General, annoyed that his
dreaming melancholy should be interrupted by this inopportune visit, cut
short the Commandant's story with a gesture of command and a word . . .
one word only. He said no more. He took two puffs from a Turkish
cigarette that was slowly scorching the wood of the piano, and again
ran his hands over the ivory keys, catching up the broken threads of the
vague and tender improvisation inspired by the gloaming.

"Thanks, Your Excellency," said the gratified Desnoyers, surmising his
magnanimous response.

The Commandant had disappeared, nor could the Frenchman find him outside
the castle. A soldier was pacing up and down near the iron gates in
order to transmit commands, and the guards were pushing back with blows
from their guns, a screaming group of women and tiny children. The
entrance was entirely cleared! undoubtedly the crowds were returning
to the village after the General's pardon. . . . Desnoyers was half way
down the avenue when he heard a howling sound composed of many voices, a
hair-raising shriek such as only womanly desperation can send forth. At
the same time, the air was vibrating with snaps, the loud cracking sound
that he knew from the day before. Shots! . . . He imagined that on
the other side of the iron railing there were some writhing bodies
struggling to escape from powerful arms, and others fleeing with bounds
of fear. He saw running toward him a horror-stricken, sobbing woman with
her hands to her head. It was the wife of the Keeper who a little while
before had joined the desperate group of women.

"Oh, don't go on, Master," she called stopping his hurried step. "They
have killed him. . . . They have just shot him."

Don Marcelo stood rooted to the ground. Shot! . . . and after the
General