The officer stood at the open door, watching curiously the interior of
the main room. Scattered all over the floor there lay contorted and
twisted forms. They lay in irregular heaps. It was an appalling and
gruesome sight. From somewhere protruded some one's long, bare legs;
near the wall lingered a lonely arm, curled, swollen, and slightly
lifted, it hung in a threatening posture; from under a tattered old
military coat projected a thick brush of black-blue hair; and at some
distance, leaning on the furnace, there half sat the mighty figure of a
stately corpse. The majestic body was bent in gloom, two huge, rough,
and calloused hands supporting a big head.
Suddenly it seemed to the Lieutenant as if he heard some one groan.
The sound became more and more audible, coming nearer and nearer;
one voice, a second, somebody called, a cry rang out, and suddenly
pandemonium broke loose. Air-rending cries came from all sides, and men
began to drop, one by one, falling about the officer and stretching at
his feet. Some fell straight from the ceiling to the earthen floor,
others came creeping down the ladder; they dropped into the flames,
choking and writhing in deadly agony.
The officer, half dead from fright, drew his revolver and opened fire.
He ceased firing when his supply of bullets gave out. His ammunition
gone, the Lieutenant threw down the weapon and ran. No one will ever
know the number of unfortunates he thus killed. All I know is that
of all the men hiding in the garret of that farm only one was saved.
It was he who told me this terrible tale. He did this while lying in
one of our hospitals. According to his version, there were at the
time in the building a great number of wounded soldiers, who had come
there during the last engagement. When fire was set to the house,
they endeavored to get down. All perished. Some were burned alive,
while others were shot to death by their own officer. Among those
who perished was also the soldier who had served as the Lieutenant's
assistant.
These were the horrible visions. I saw them every time I chanced to
pass the ruined and devastated spot.
The fate of the vain and unhappy officer does not in the least concern
me. I am not even disposed to blame him for his weakness. For this we
can only pity a man. One is bound to pity also those who met death at
his hands.
But for some reason or other I cannot help remembering the wounded
little girl. There she lay, dying from loss of blood; there at the
turning of the footpath, near the two little birch trees.