thly and evenly; the men gained poise
and assurance. Zaidos was almost happy in his work.

Then suddenly on the fifth day the blow fell. The unbelievable horror
came to pass.

Zaidos and his group passed out into the street as usual, early in the
morning. As they made formation a smothered groan like a deep breath
escaped them.

Against the blank wall before them, bound, stood the deserter.

Once Zaidos had read a highly colored account of a man who had felt the
extremest depth of horror. The book said that he had felt as though
his bones were turning to water, and Zaidos had sneered at the
description. It flashed into his mind when he looked into the wild,
chalky countenance of the man against the wall. He glanced down the
line of soldiers. A stupid blankness seemed to envelop them. Pale as
death they stared at the shaking creature before them. There was a
terrible silence that sounded as loud and beat as fiercely in their
ears as the boom of cannon. Things moved with frightful deliberation.
It seemed that they stood for hours staring at the doomed man. It
seemed to take hours of physical, dragging effort to obey the next
command and move directly in front of that ghastly face. Then more
moments, hours, or ages, ticked off endlessly with the dull beating of
their hearts. In the face opposite a dull despair dawned slowly.
Expression died out. A fearful understanding of things washed away all
earthly hope. He stared at the file of men in front of him as dumbly
as the ox approaching the butcher. He had deserted, he had been
caught, he was to die; that was all. All the little simplicities of
his life lay behind him. His wife--his little _girl_-wife, the tiny
baby, the warm hut, the friendly wildness of the trackless mountains.
They were back of him; he could no longer turn to them.
Back-to-the-wall he stood, this untrained, undisciplined creature,
facing a line of muskets that wavered in the shaking hands of the
soldiers. There was not one of them who would not have faced a
regiment, untried as they were, for the men of Greece are heroes; but
to stand there and aim at that one poor quaking target. * * * It was a
nightmare. It was delirium. Zaidos felt his bones turn to water. He
almost fell. Down the line a man fainted.

The priest approached and, walking swiftly to the condemned man, spoke
to him in a low and tender tone. The man did not reply. He nodded,
but looked at the soldiers. The pri