"I see that you feel pity, madame, in spite of all that you have gone through. But you must have no pity, madame. Of course it is the pity which we cannot help feeling for those about to die. But we must have no pity for these people or for members of their race. They have placed themselves beyond the pale of mankind; and we must never forget it. When you are a mother, madame, you will teach your children a feeling to which France was a stranger and which will prove a safeguard in the future: hatred of the Huns." He took her by the arm in a friendly fashion and led her towards the door: "Allow me to see you out. Are you coming, Delroze? You must need rest after such a day's work." They went out. The spy was shrieking: "Mercy! Mercy!" The soldiers were already drawn up in line along the opposite wall. The count, Paul and Bernard waited for a moment. She had killed the Comte d'Andeville's wife. She had killed Bernard's mother and Paul's father. She had tortured Élisabeth. And, though their minds were troubled, they felt the great calm which the sense of justice gives. No hatred stirred them. No thought of vengeance excited them. The gendarmes had fastened the spy by the waistband to a nail in the wall, to hold her up. They now stood aside. Paul said to her: "One of the soldiers here is a priest. If you need his assistance. . . ." But she did not understand. She did not listen. She merely saw what was happening and what was about to happen; and she stammered without ceasing: "Mercy! . . . Mercy! . . . Mercy! . . ." They went out. When they came to the top of the staircase, a word of command reached their ears: "Present! . . ." Lest he should hear more, Paul slammed the inner and outer hall-doors behind him. Outside was the open air, the good pure air with which men love to fill their lungs. Troops were marching along, singing as they went. Paul and Bernard learnt that the battle was over and our positions definitely assured. Here also the Comtesse Hermine had failed. . . . * * * * * A few days later, at the Château d'Ornequin, Second Lieutenant Bernard d'Andeville, accompanied by twelve men, entered the casemate, well-warmed and well-ventilated, which served as a prison for Prince Conrad. On the table were some bottles and the remains of an ample repast. The prince lay sleeping on a bed against the wall. Bernard tapped him on the shoulder: "Courage, sir." The prisoner sprang up, terrified: "Eh? What's that?" "I said, courage, sir. The hour has come." Pale as death, the prince stammered: "Courage? . . . Courage? . . . I don't understand. . . . Oh Lord, oh Lord, is it possible?" "Everything is always possible," said Bernard, "and what has to happen always happens, especially calamities." And he suggested, "A glass of rum, sir, to pull you together? A cigarette?" "Oh Lord, oh Lord!" the prince repeated, trembling like a leaf.