“If I had a little more time,” said François, “I could finish the thing.”
The jailer and his two deputies had but a dim understanding of François’ verses, but his practised and musical voice, his eloquent eyes, made them feel something, and the jailer, who had a streak of humanity in him, suddenly began winking his small, dull eyes.
“Excuse me,” said François, putting on his hat, “for wearing my hat in your august presence, but I am determined not to catch cold. And remember, I am Jean Leroux, the descendant, as the name indicates, of a family of Spanish hidalgos with large possessions in the Philippines.”
The jailer knew enough to understand that this was a joke, and he said, trying to laugh:
“Oh, yes, Jean Leroux, I won’t forget you, and I shall tell everybody who asks for you, ‘That fellow Leroux was a cool hand.’”
The jailer then produced a rope and proceeded to tie François’ hands behind his back. He was gentle about it, and asked François if it hurt.
“No,” replied François, “but I hope it won’t take the skin off.”
Then began a march through the dim corridor at the end of which were found half a dozen other unfortunates to be stood up against the wall before a firing squad.
All were calm except an old priest, who said with a tremulous smile to François, standing next him:
“I don’t see why I should tremble so, because I am already seventy-seven years old, and could not live much longer.”
“Well, then,” answered François, “you should not mind a little thing like a bullet, which will send you to heaven.”
“True,” said the old man, suddenly straightening himself up; “your words are words of wisdom.”
“Now,” continued François, ranging himself by the side of the old priest as the sombre procession marched two and two down the stone stairs, “I have a great deal to answer for in the next half hour, but, I tell you, I believe God is a good deal easier on His poor children than men are to each other. The devil is a _sans culotte_. I chummed with him, but I never mistook him for a gentleman.”
“Really,” said the old priest as he clumped feebly down the stairs worn by the feet of many prisoners, “you do for me what I should do for you.”
The grewsome procession, headed and flanked and enclosed by guards and jailers, passed through the courtyard until they came to a garden. On one side was a long, lately opened trench.