Still, everything must be over yonder. One party of the butchers attended to the corpses, while the others formed into line and, pivoting upon the officer, marched towards Miss Cavell. They thus stepped out of the frame within which we were able to follow their movements; but I was able to perceive, by the gestures of the officer, that they were forming up opposite Nurse Cavell, between her and us. The officer stepped towards her, accompanied by a military chaplain, who placed a crucifix to her lips. She kissed it fervently and tenderly. The chaplain then gave her his blessing; and she was left alone. A mist once more shrouded the scene, leaving her whole figure full in the light. Her eyelids were still closed, her head erect and her body rigid. She was at that moment wearing a very sweet and very tranquil expression. Not a trace of fear distorted her noble countenance. She stood awaiting death with saintly serenity. And this death, as it was revealed to us, was neither very cruel nor very odious. The upper part of the body fell forward. The head drooped a little to one side. But the shame of it lay in what followed. The officer stood close to the victim, revolver in hand. And he was pressing the barrel to his victim's temple, when, suddenly, the mist broke into dense waves and the whole picture disappeared. . . . CHAPTER IV NOËL DORGEROUX'S SON The spectator who has just been watching the most tragic of films finds it easy to escape from the sort of dark prison-house in which he was suffocating and, with the return of the light, recovers his equilibrium and his self-possession. I, on the other hand, remained for a long time numb and speechless, with my eyes riveted to the empty panel, as though I expected something else to emerge from it. Even when it was over, the tragedy terrified me, like a nightmare prolonged after waking, and, even more than the tragedy, the absolutely extraordinary manner in which it had been unfolded before my eyes. I did not understand. My disordered brain vouchsafed me none but the most grotesque and incoherent ideas. A movement on the part of Noël Dorgeroux drew me from my stupor: he had drawn the curtain across the screen. At this I vehemently seized my uncle by his two hands and cried: "What does all this mean? It's maddening! What explanation are you able to give?" "None," he said, simply. "But still . . . you brought me here." "Yes, that you might also see and to make sure that my eyes had not deceived me." "Therefore you have already witnessed other scenes in that same setting?" "Yes, other sights . . . three times before." "What, uncle? Can you specify them?" "Certainly: what I saw yesterday, for instance." "What was that, uncle?" He pushed me a little and gazed at me, at first without replying. Then, speaking in a very low tone, with deliberate conviction, he said: "The battle of Trafalgar."