But it seemed that the corporal's voice emboldened him, for he drew
near and stood watching.

'Who did _this_, little one?' asked Corporal Sam, nodding towards the
corpse, as he rubbed the charred dust from his hands.

For a while the child stared at him, not comprehending; but by-and-by
pointed beneath the table and then back at its mother.

The corporal walked to the table, stooped, and drew from under it a
rifle and a pouch half-filled with cartridges.

'Tell him we've _been_ there.' He seemed to hear the rifleman Bill's
voice repeating the words, close at hand. He recognised the badge on
the pouch.

He was shaking where he stood; and this, perhaps, was why the child
stared at him so oddly. But, looking into the wondering young eyes,
he read only the question, 'What are you going to do?'

He hated these riflemen. Nay, looking around the room, how he hated
all the foul forces that had made this room what it was! . . .
And yet, on the edge of resolve, he knew that he must die for what he
meant to do . . . that the thing was unpardonable, that in the end he
must be shot down, and rightly, as a dog.

He remembered his dog Rover, how the poor brute had been tempted to
sheep-killing at night, on the sly; and the look in his eyes when,
detected at length, he had crawled forward to his master to be shot.
No other sentence was possible, and Rover had known it.