I was gazing steadfastly, with all that stupid intensity which imperfect senses and exhausted faculties possess, when the sound of voices near aroused me.
"Bring him along,--this way, Bob.

Over the breach with the scoundrel, into the fosse." "He shall die no soldier's death, by Heaven!" cried another and a deeper voice, "if I lay his skull open with my axe." "Oh, mercy, mercy! as you hope for--" "Traitor! don't dare to mutter here!" As the last words were spoken, four infantry soldiers, reeling from drunkenness, dragged forward a pale and haggard wretch, whose limbs trailed behind him like those of palsy, his uniform was that of a French chasseur, but his voice bespoke him English.
"Kneel down there, and die like a man! You were one once!" "Not so, Bill, never.

Fix bayonets, boys! That's right! Now take the word from me." "Oh, forgive me! for the love of Heaven, forgive me!" screamed the voice of the victim; but his last accents ended in a death-cry, for as he spoke, the bayonets flashed for an instant in the air, and the next were plunged into his body.

Twice I had essayed to speak, but my voice, hoarse from shouting, came not; and I could but look upon this terrible murder with staring eyes and burning brain.

At last speech came, as if wrested by the very excess of my agony, and I muttered aloud, "O God!" The words were not well-spoken, when the muskets were brought to the shoulders, and reeking with the blood of the murdered man, their savage faces scowled at me as I lay.
A short and heart-felt prayer burst from my lips, and I was still.