Being shortsighted, I could not see very well without my glasses, but I could just make out a tall figure with a white back, marching along between two rows of soldiers. When I joined the crowd standing behind, I got out my glasses, and could see everything that was going on distinctly. A tall man with his bare arms tied to a bayonet, his bare back⁠—on which the blood was beginning to show itself⁠—slightly bent, was walking down an avenue of soldiers armed with sticks. This man was the image of myself⁠—my double! The same height, stooping shoulders, bald head, the same kind of whiskers without a moustache, the same cheekbones, mouth, and blue eyes. But there was no smile on those lips that opened and contorted with pain at the blows, no tender, caressing expression in those eyes that protruded horribly, now closing, now opening.