A dry, dull thunderclap, followed by some scattering, tardy shots.
Don Marcelo's compassion for that forlorn cluster of massacred humanity was intensified on beholding the grotesque forms which many assumed in the moment of death.

Some collapsed like half-emptied sacks; others rebounded from the ground like balls; some leaped like gymnasts, with upraised arms, falling on their backs, or face downward, like a swimmer.
In that human heap, he saw limbs writhing in the agony of death.

Some soldiers advanced like hunters bagging their prey.

From the palpitating mass fluttered locks of white hair, and a feeble hand, trying to repeat the sacred sign.

A few more shots and blows on the livid, mangled mass.