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The mayor gave a signal, and the woodcutters untied Berta from the stretcher and laid her on the monolith.
"That's no good," the blacksmith protested, remembering the war films he'd seen, with soldiers crawling along the ground. "It's hard to shoot someone when they're lying down."
The woodcutters shifted Berta into a sitting position with her back against the stone. It seemed ideal, but then a sudden sob was heard and a woman's voice said:
"She's looking at us. She can see what we're doing."
Berta could not, of course, see a thing, but it was unbearable to look at that kindly lady, asleep, with a contented smile on her lips, and to think that in a short while she would be torn apart by all those tiny pellets.
"Turn her around," ordered the mayor, who was also troubled by the sight.
Grumbling, the woodcutters returned once more to the monolith and turned the body around, so that this time she was kneeling on the ground, with her face and chest resting on the stone. It was impossible to keep her upright in this position, so they had to tie a rope around her wrists, throw it over the top of the monument, and fasten it on the other side.
Berta's position was now utterly grotesque: kneeling, with her back to them, her arms stretched out over the stone, as if she were praying or begging for something. Someone protested again, but the mayor said it was time to do what they had come to do.
And the quicker the better. With no speeches or justifications; that could wait until tomorrow--in the bar, on the streets, in conversations between shepherds and farmers. It was likely that one of the three roads out of Viscos would not be used for a long while, since they were all so accustomed to seeing Berta sitting there, looking up at the mountains and talking to herself. Luckily, the village had two other exits, as well as a narrow shortcut, with some improvised steps down to the road below.
"Let's get this over with," said the mayor, pleased that the priest was now saying nothing, and that his own authority had been reestablished. "Someone in the valley might see these lights and decide to find out what's going on. Prepare your shotguns, fire, and then we can leave."
Without ceremony. Doing their duty, like good soldiers defending their village. With no doubts in their minds. This was an order, and it would be obeyed.
And suddenly, the mayor not only understood the priest's silence, he realized that he had fallen into a trap. If one day the story of what had happened got out, all the others could claim, as all murderers did in wartime, that they were merely obeying orders. But what was going on at that moment in their hearts? Did they see him as a villain or as their savior?
He could not weaken now, at the very moment when he heard the shotguns being snapped shut, the barrels fitting perfectly into the breech blocks. He imagined the noise that 174 guns would make, but by the time anyone arrived to see what was going on, they would be far away. Shortly before they had begun the climb up to the monolith, he had ordered them to extinguish all lights on the way back. They knew the route by heart, and the lights were simply to avoid any accidents when they opened fire.
Instinctively, the women stepped back, and the men took aim at the inert body, some fifty yards away. They could not possibly miss, having been trained since childhood to shoot fleeing animals and birds in flight.
The mayor prepared to give the order to fire.
"Just a moment," shouted a female voice.
It was Miss Prym.
"What about the gold? Have you seen it yet?"
The shotguns were lowered, but still ready to be fired; no, no one had seen the gold. They all turned towards the stranger.
He walked slowly in front of the shotguns. He put his rucksack down on the ground and one by one took out the bars of gold.
"There it is," he said, before returning to his place at one end of the semicircle.
Miss Prym went over to the gold bars and picked one up.
"It's gold," she said. "But I want you to check it. Let nine women come up here and examine each of the bars still on the ground."
The mayor began to get worried: they would be in the line of fire, and someone of a nervous disposition might set off a gun by accident; but nine women--including his wife--went over to join Miss Prym and did as she asked.
"Yes, it's gold," the mayor's wife said, carefully checking the bar she had in her hands, and comparing it to the few pieces of gold jewelry she possessed. "I can see it has a hallmark and what must be a serial number, as well as the date it was cast and its weight. It's the real thing all right."
"Well, hang on to that gold and listen to what I have to say."
"This is no time for speeches, Miss Prym," the mayor said. "All of you get away from there so that we can finish the job."
"Shut up, you idiot!"
These words from Chantal startled everyone. None of them dreamed that anyone in Viscos could say what they had just heard.
"Have you gone mad?"
