This
was horrible.
"My dear child," he cried in despair, "is it possible that you think me
capable of murdering a wounded adversary? Is it.... Be quiet, you little
wildcat, you," he added.
She struggled. A thick sleepy voice said behind him:
"What are you up to with that girl?"
Lieutenant Feraud had raised himself on his good arm. He was looking
sleepily at his other arm, at the mess of blood on his uniform, at a
small red pool on the ground, at his sabre lying a foot away on the
path. Then he laid himself down gently again to think it all out as far
as a thundering headache would permit of mental operations.
Lieutenant D'Hubert released the girl's wrists. She flew away down the
path and crouched wildly by the side of the vanquished warrior. The
shades of night were falling on the little trim garden with this
touching group whence proceeded low murmurs of sorrow and compassion
with other feeble sounds of a different character as if an imperfectly
awake invalid were trying to swear. Lieutenant D'Hubert went away, too
exasperated to care what would happen.
He passed through the silent house and congratulated himself upon the
dusk concealing his gory hands and scratched face from the passers-by.
But this story could by no means be concealed. He dreaded the discredit
and ridicule above everything, and was painfully aware of sneaking
through the back streets to his quarters. In one of these quiet side
streets the sounds of a flute coming out of the open window of a lighted
upstairs room in a modest house interrupted his dismal reflections.
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