“Corporal,” asked Pache, in a voice that faltered a little, “you have lots of ideas in your head; couldn’t you kill him painlessly?”

Jean refused the cruel task with a gesture of disgust.  What, kill that poor beast that was even then in its death agony! oh, no, no!  His first impulse had been to fly and take Maurice with him, that neither of them might be concerned in the revolting butchery; but looking at his companion and beholding him so pale and faint, he reproached himself for such an excess of sensibility.  What were animals created for after all, mon Dieu, unless to afford sustenance to man!  They could not allow themselves to starve when there was food within reach.  And it rejoiced him to see Maurice cheer up a little at the prospect of eating; he said in his easy, good-natured way: 

“Faith, you’re wrong there; I’ve no ideas in my head, and if he has got to be killed without pain—­”

“Oh! that’s all one to me,” interrupted Lapoulle.  “I’ll show you.”

The two newcomers seated themselves in the ditch and joined the others in their expectancy.  Now and again one of the men would rise and make certain that the horse was still there, its neck outstretched to catch the cool exhalations of the Meuse and the last rays of the setting sun, as if bidding farewell to life.  And when at last twilight crept slowly o’er the scene the six men were erect upon their feet, impatient that night was so tardy in its coming, casting furtive, frightened looks about them to see they were not observed.

“Ah, zut!” exclaimed Chouteau, “the time is come!”

Objects were still discernible in the fields by the uncertain, mysterious light “between dog and wolf,” and Lapoulle went forward first, followed by the five others.  He had taken from the ditch a large, rounded boulder, and, with it in his two brawny hands, rushing upon the horse, commenced to batter at his skull as with a club.  At the second blow, however, the horse, stung by the pain, attempted to get on his feet.  Chouteau and Loubet had thrown themselves across his legs and were endeavoring to hold him down, shouting to the others to help them.  The poor brute’s cries were almost human in their accent of terror and distress; he struggled desperately to shake off his assailants, and would have broken them like a reed had he not been half dead with inanition.  The movements of his head prevented the blows from taking effect; Lapoulle was unable to despatch him.

“Nom de Dieu! how hard his bones are!  Hold him, somebody, until I finish him.”

Jean and Maurice stood looking at the scene in silent horror; they heard not Chouteau’s appeals for assistance; were powerless to raise a hand.  And Pache, in a sudden outburst of piety and pity, dropped on his knees, joined his hands, and began to mumble the prayers that are repeated at the bedside of the dying.

“Merciful God, have pity on him.  Let him, good Lord, depart in peace—­”