"You are a native of this country?"
"No, I am a Belgian."
"Why did you take up arms? These are matters with which you have no concern."
Dominique made no reply. At this moment the officer caught sight of Françoise where she stood listening, very pale; her slight wound had marked her white forehead with a streak of red. He looked from one to the other of the young people and appeared to understand the situation; he merely added:
"You do not deny having fired on my men?"
"I fired as long as I was able to do so," Dominique quietly replied.
The admission was scarcely necessary, for he was black with powder, wet with sweat, and the blood from the wound in his shoulder had trickled down and stained his clothing.
"Very well," the officer repeated. "You will be shot two hours hence."
Françoise uttered no cry. She clasped her hands and raised them above her head in a gesture of mute despair. Her action was not lost upon the officer. Two soldiers had led Dominique away to an adjacent room where their orders were to guard him and not lose sight of him. The girl had sunk upon a chair; her strength had failed her, her legs refused to support her; she was denied the relief of tears, it seemed as if her emotion was strangling her. The officer continued to examine her attentively and finally addressed her:
"Is that young man your brother?" he inquired.
She shook her head in negation. He was as rigid and unbending as ever, without the suspicion of a
