‘Yes,’ the corporal said.
‘Then take that bird. Recant, confess, say you were wrong; that what you led was—led? you led nothing: you simply participated—an attack which failed to advance. Take life from me; ask mercy and accept it. I can give it, even for a military failure. The general commanding your division will—he already has—demand a sacrifice, not in the name of France or of victory, but in that of his blemished record. But it’s not he, it’s I who wear this hat.’
‘There are still ten,’ the corporal said.
‘Who will hate you—until they forget you. Who will even curse you until they have forgot whom they cursed, and why. No no: close the window upon that baseless dream. Open this other one; perhaps you will—can—see nothing but gray beyond it—except for that bough, always; that one single bough which will be there always waiting and ready for that weightless and ephemeral burden. Take that bird.’
‘Dont be afraid,’ the corporal said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing worth it.’
