His mouth, with its full lips, drooped tremulously. His hands hung limp.

Noisily clicking together the heels of his heavy boots, the corporal saluted and stood at attention. The officer stopped a few paces away, nodded slightly, and, with his eyes still on the halter, asked:

“For what time is the execution fixed?”

“It was fixed for four o’clock, sir, may you live long,” answered the corporal in so loud a voice that the captain threw him a quick glance. “But I see it is five now and they haven’t arrived yet.”

“I see, I see …” muttered the captain, looking down on the diggers, who were digging away silently, their heads bent towards the earth. He then asked in a firmer tone: “And whom are you going to hang?”

“We couldn’t say, sir,” said the corporal, rather confused. “There are rumours that it is an officer, but we don’t know for sure.”

“And for what crime?” demanded the officer, staring at him almost angrily.

The corporal, more and ’more abashed, answered hesitatingly, with a smile of bitter compassion:

“Well, sir, how can we know? In war-time a man’s life is like a flower, its petals fall off and leave us wondering why. The Lord has made us very sinful, and mortals are not forgiving.”

The captain stared hard at him, as if he were surprised at his words, and asked no more questions. He looked up and, his eyes having caught sight of the gallows, he drew back a few paces as if from a threatening foe. At that moment from the road leading to the village a harsh, commanding voice called out:

“Corporal! Ready, corporal?”

“Ready, sir!” shouted the corporal, turning round smartly, his hand at the salute.

The lieutenant, with the grey fur collar of his trench-coat turned up, came along quickly, almost at a run, talking all the time.

“Is everything ready, corporal? The convoy is on the way and will be here in a few moments. Where is the sergeant-major? Why has he not come on first? If I, who am not directly concerned in this, could take the trouble to come along, surely …”

He broke off abruptly on catching sight of the unknown captain, who was looking at him uneasily. The lieutenant saluted and, advancing to the margin of the grave, exclaimed excitedly:

“The stool, corporal! Where is it? Why are you staring at me like a fool? What is the condemned man to stand on? What men! Such indifference I have never met! If need be, you’ll have to dig me out a stool from the bowels of the earth! Now then, look alive! What are you gaping at?”

The corporal set off for the village at a run, and the lieutenant, with a side look at the captain, who was standing apart, went on more calmly:

“With men of that type, we’ll certainly not beat Europe. Where there is no sense of duty …”

While he was speaking he crossed over to the fir-wood stake and stood under the now motionless halter. He examined the grave and, displeased, muttered something. Then, looking up, he caught hold of the rope above his head with both hands, as if he wished to test its strength, but, meeting the scared gaze of the captain, he let go the halter, confused and abashed. He stood where he was for a few seconds undecided, then, making up his mind, he went up quickly to the stranger and introduced himself.

“Lieutenant Apostol Bologa.”

“Klapka,” put in the captain with hand outstretched, “Otto Klapka. I have just arrived from the Italian front. At the station I heard that you were having an execution, and, I don’t quite know how, I found my way here.”

The captain’s voice was so obviously nervous that the lieutenant, much against his will, again felt ashamed and, to hide his embarrassment, said with forced heartiness:

“Then you have been transferred to our division?”

“Yes, to the 50th Field Artillery.”

“Ah, our own regiment!” exclaimed Bologa, really pleased this time. “Welcome!”

The captain’s face cleared. It seemed as if the lieutenant’s open-heartedness had brought to light a new man. They exchanged a look of sympathy. A short silence, then Klapka shuddered and asked nervously:

“Whom are you hanging?”

In Apostol Bologa’s blue and deep-set eyes there flashed an odd look of pride. He answered with barely restrained indignation:

“A Czech sub-lieutenant, Svoboda; all the more shame for the officer fraternity. He was caught just as he was about to go over to the enemy with maps and plans in his pocket. Shameful and revolting, isn’t it?” he added after a short silence, as Klapka had said nothing.

“H’m … yes … perhaps”; the captain started and answered uncertainly.

This ambiguous answer made Bologa obstinately determined to convince him, and he began to talk with a volubility that one could see was not natural to him.

“I had the honour to be a member of the court martial which judged and condemned him. As a matter of fact, he did not even deny it. Not that it would have made any difference; in face of the undeniable proofs any sort of defence would have been useless. He did not open his mouth during the whole proceedings, and would not even answer the President’s questions. He looked at each of us in turn defiantly, with a sort of superb contempt. Even the death sentence he received with a smile and a look in his eyes like… like … Of course, not even an infamous death terrifies that type of man. When a patrol led by an officer caught him, he tried to shoot himself.