"Is it your hands that refuse? The idea of taking hold of the flesh and squeezing? . . . Here, captain, take my revolver and blow out his brains."
Patrice accepted the weapon eagerly and aimed it at old Siméon. The silence was appalling. Old Siméon's eyes had closed and drops of sweat were streaming down his livid cheeks.
At last the officer lowered his arm:
"I can't do it," he said.
"Nonsense," said Don Luis. "Get on with the work."
"No. . . . No. . . ."
"But, in Heaven's name, why not?"
"I can't."
"You can't? Shall I tell you the reason? You are thinking of that man as if he were your father."
"Perhaps it's that," said the officer, speaking very low. "There's a chance of it, you know."
"What does it matter, if he's a beast and a blackguard?"
"No, no, I haven't the right. Let h
