What clearer proof of guilt could there be than that attempt to commit suicide? The court condemned him unanimously, without discussion, so obvious was the crime. I myself, although I am usually inclined to waver, feel in this case that my conscience is perfectly satisfiedabsolutely satisfied.”

Disconcerted more especially by the harshness of the young man’s tone, Klapka muttered:

“Oh, my God … proofs … when it’s a question of a man’s life!”

The thin, colourless lips of the lieutenant curled with a mixture of irony and contempt.

“You forget, sir, that it is war-time and that we are at the front! One cannot consider a man’s life when the life of one’s country is in jeopardy. If we allowed sentimental considerations to influence us, we would have to capitulate all round. One can see that you are a reserve officer, otherwise you would not speak thus of a crime.…

“Yes, that’s true enough,” Klapka made haste to agree nervously. “I was a lawyer in time of peace. Now, however …”

“I also am a reserve officer,” interrupted the lieutenant with pride. “The war snatched me from the midst of my studies at the University, where I had almost lost touch with real life, but it did not take me long to wake up, and now I realize that war is the real generator of energy.”

The captain smiled as if he found the answer absurd, and said softly, with a tinge of quiet irony:

“Really? I had always thought that war was a destroyer of energy!”

Apostol Bologa blushed like a girl and avoided the captain’s eye; he felt fearfully ill at ease and tried to find a harsh answer to put an end to the conversation. Just then the gasping corporal returned with the stool.

“Excuse me, sir!” exclaimed Bologa, relieved, turning to the perspiring corporal as if the latter were bringing him salvation. “It is too high, can’t you see?” he shouted angrily. “How is the prisoner to climb on that? But really I don’t see why I should worry about it, for I am not responsible for the execution.… You must listen to what the general will have to say to you, and mind you remember his words! What on earth are you waiting for now? Get a move on and try to put things straight.… Pull up that rope a bit.… What beings!”

He raised both hands, revolted, and turned his back on them. But he immediately calmed down at sight of a group of officers who, with very solemn demeanour, were approaching from the direction of the village. At their head walked the C.O. of the division, small and fat, with very short legs and a very red face. He kept on striking the leg of his boot with a riding-whip, while he listened to something that the military prosecutor—a captain with a big belly and grey moustaches—was explaining, while gesticulating widely with the right hand, in which he held a sheet of paper.

“The convoy is coming—look, and the general also!” whispered Bologa with a quick wink at the captain, who drew back as from an unexpected vision.

The lieutenant ran to meet the general and, saluting, reported importantly:

“I happened to get here earlier, Excellency, and I noticed that there was no stool.”

“No stool?” repeated the general with a dissatisfied glance at the prosecutor, who was desperately trying to catch Bologa’s eye.

“But I at once took measures to remedy this,” added the lieutenant hastily to relieve the confused prosecutor.

Nevertheless, the prosecutor felt that the general was annoyed and, muttering an apology, he hastened his steps so as to arrive first at the place of execution and see how his orders had been carried out. One quick glance showed him that all seemed ready, and without taking the slightest notice of the corporal, who was still standing at the salute like a petrified figure, he was about to turn smilingly to the general, who had almost caught him up, when suddenly a thought struck him, and he asked in a worried voice:

“Where’s the executioner, corporal?”

“We don’t know, sir,” answered the corporal. “We had orders to dig the grave and …”

“What do you mean by saying you don’t know, you fool?” exclaimed the prosecutor, really disturbed. Then he shouted angrily: “Where’s the sergeant-major? What has the sergeant-major done about it? Sergeant-major! … Imagine, Excellency, we have no executioner!” he added, now completely flurried, turning to the general, who had just come up to the grave. “In vain I take all the required measures; the men have no sense of duty.…”

A sergeant-major with an ashen face came running up at full speed and halted tremblingly at the side of the gallows.

“What have you been up to, you rascal? Where’s the executioner?” the prosecutor shouted at him, and, grinding his teeth, added: “I’ll … I’ll …”

“Thirty days’ confinement!” barked, the general, stroking his left moustache and cracking his whip. “A man, however, will be wanted at once …”

“Corporal, you’ll act as executioner!” broke in the prosecutor quickly, somewhat relieved.

“Sir, I beg with all submission to be excused,” mumbled the corporal, turning pale. “I beg you, sir, with all submission …”

The prosecutor did not even listen to what he was saying; he had again turned to the general and, as a kind of indirect excuse, began to complain of and to bemoan the lack of sense of duty amongst the men. The general, however, with restrained indignation, cut him short:

“We’ll talk later.… Now to our duty!”

On the grey road in the rapidly descending twilight the body of the convoy swung slowly nearer. The condemned man, wrapped in a greenish cloak, with collar turned up, and wearing a civilian’s hat on his bent head, walked mechanically, leaning on the arm of an old chaplain. Four soldiers with fixed bayonets surrounded the two. Groups of officers and soldiers followed. These had been brought back purposely from the front to witness the execution. All were dressed in dirty uniforms smelling strongly of the trenches, and were wearing their steel helmets. They came on in a thin, straggly line just as they pleased, and the tail end of the convoy almost touched the outskirts of the village.

Under the gallows, the corporal, anxious-eyed, stood stock-still waiting, while the sergeant-major told him in a whisper what he had to do.

The moist wind had gathered force and was now sweeping the ground, whirling round the graves of the cemeteries and buffeting the men who were approaching.

The priest with the condemned man halted at the margin of the grave. A slight shudder shook the latter at the sight of the sticky yellow clay.

“God is good and great,” the scared priest mumbled into his ear, holding up the crucifix to the prisoner’s lips.

“To the other side, Father, please!” came again from the prosecutor, whose voice sounded strained and hoarse. “These things must be done in accordance with the regulations.… Sergeant-major, attention! Don’t you know your business?”

The pace of the convoy increased as at a word of command and in a few minutes the men had formed a circle round the gallows. They were all silent, as if afraid of disturbing the sleep of a sick man, worn out with suffering.