crushing verdict. For defendants there were these gendarmes encircling the hall, visible representatives of the criminal system on trial. Should the gendarmes resort to force, they would find themselves up against a huge agitated mass of workers, silently clenching their fists and ready to defy provocation. This, the defendants—the gendarmes—understood perfectly, and so they contented themselves with malicious glances and the brandishing of swords.
The trial of the war-makers continued in full swing.
But why is this one man so indifferent? He sat next to me. His pale face was distorted by a huge scar. And under his right eye there was a deed wrinkled cavity instead of a cheek bone. Apparently some shrapnel had smashed the bone. The right eye, above the cavity, had an uncanny stare. He wore the rough khaki clothes of a labourer, and in every respect looked like an elderly workman. His lips were pressed tightly and he stared at the speaker fixedly.
The scoundrel! Why does he stare so? Why does he glare at the speaker’s face as if he were noting every detail?
It’s plain, the last war did not decorate him enough! Just look at that mark, the mercenary dog! What more does he want? I am only sorry that the gun which sent millions of honest workers to their grave didn’t consign the whole of your ugly mug to hell!
I looked at him challengingly and stubbornly. He didn’t clap once the whole time, nor make a
