's pardon! . . . Suddenly he ran back to the castle, hardly
knowing what he was doing, and soon reached the salon. His Excellency
was still at the piano humming in low tones, his eyes moistened by the
poesy of his dreams. But the breathless old gentleman did not stop to
listen.

"They have shot him, Your Excellency. . . . They have just killed him in
spite of your order."

The smile which crossed the Count's face immediately informed him of his
mistake.

"That is war, my dear sir," said the player, pausing for a moment. "War
with its cruel necessities. . . . It is always expedient to destroy the
enemy of to-morrow."

And with a pedantic air as though he were giving a lesson, he discoursed
about the Orientals, great masters of the art of living. One of the
personages most admired by him was a certain Sultan of the Turkish
conquest who, with his own hands, had strangled the sons of the
adversary. "Our foes do not come into the world on horseback and
brandishing the lance," said that hero. "All are born as children, and
it is advisable to wipe them from the face of the earth before they grow
up."

Desnoyers listened without taking it in. One thought only was occupying
his mind. . . . That man that he had supposed just, that sentimentalist
so affected by his own singing, had, between two arpeggios, coldly given
the order for death! . . .

The Count made a gesture of impatience. He might retire now, and he
counselled him to be more discreet in the future, avoiding mixing
himself up in the affairs of the service. Then he turned his back,
running his hands over the piano, and giving himself up to harmonious
melancholy.

For Don Marcelo there now began an absurd life of the most extraordinary
events, an experience which was going to last four days. In his life
history, this period represented a long parenthesis of stupefaction,
slashed by the most horrible visions.

Not wishing to meet these men again, he abandoned his own bedroom,
taking refuge on the top floor in the servants' quarters, near the
room selected by the Warden and his family. In vain the good woman kept
offering him things to eat as the night came on--he had no appetite. He
lay stretched out on the bed, preferring to be alone with his thoughts
in the dark. When would this martyrdom ever come to an end? . . .

There came into his mind the recollection of a trip which he had made
to London some years ago. In his imagination he again saw the British
Mus