The sun is descending towards the crest of the Cordillera, his rays
becoming encrimsoned as twilight approaches. They fall like streams of
blood between the bluffs enclosing the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo,
their tint in unison with a tragedy there about to be enacted--in itself
strangely out of correspondence with the soft, tranquil scene.
The stage is the encampment of Uraga and his detachment of lancers, now
set for the terrible spectacle soon to take place.
The two tents are still standing as pitched, several paces apart. At
the entrance of the square one, with its flap drawn close and tied, a
soldier keeps sentry; that of conical shape being unguarded.
Rearward, by the wood edge, are three horses and a mule, all four under
saddle, with bridles on; these attached to the branches of a tree.
There is no providence in this, but rather neglect. Since the purpose
for which they were caparisoned has proved abortive, they remain so only
from having been forgotten.
The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead,
are browsing at the length of their lariats.
It is in the positions and attitudes of the men that a spectator might
read preparation; and of a kind from which he could not fail to deduce
the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise,
but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be
followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be
more properly designated, a military murder.
The victims devoted are seen near the edge of the open ground--its lower
edge regarding the direction of the stream. They are in erect attitude,
each with his back to the trunk of a tree, to which with raw-hide ropes
they are securely lashed. No need telling who they are. The reader
knows them to be the prisoners lately lying prostrate near the same
place.
In their front, and scarce ten paces distant, the lancers are drawn up
in line and single file. There are ten of them, the tenth a little
retired to the right, showing chevrons on his sleeve. He is the
sergeant in immediate command of the firing party. Farther rearward,
and close by the conical tent, and two in the uniform of officers, Uraga
and his adjutant. The former is himself about to pronounce the word of
command, the relentless expression upon his face, blent with a grim
smile that overspreads it, leading to believe that the act of diabolical
cruelty gives him gratification. Above, upon the cliff's brow, the
black vultures also show signs of satisfaction. With necks craned and
awry, the better to look below, they see preparations which instinct or
experience has taught them to understand. Blood is about to be spilled;
there will be flesh to afford them a feast.
There is now perfect silence, after a scene which preceded; once more
Uraga having made overtures to Miranda, with promise of life under the
same scandalous conditions; as before, to receive the response, firmly
spoken,--
"No--never!"
The patriot soldier prefers death to dishonour.
His choice taken, he quails not. Tied to the trunk of the tree, he
stands facing his executioners without show of fear. If his cheeks be
blanched, and his bosom throbbing with tumultuous emotion, 'tis not at
sight of the firing party, or the guns held loaded in their hands. Far
other are his fears, none of them for himself, but all for his dear
sister--Adela. No need to dwell upon or describe them. They may be
imagined.
And Don Prospero, brave and defiant too. He stands backed by the tree,
his eyes showing calm courage, his long silvered beard touching his
breast, not drooping or despairingly, but like one resigned to his fate,
and still firm in the faith that has led to it--a second Wickliffe at
the stake.
The moment has arrived when the stillness becomes profound, like the
calm which precedes the first burst of a thunderstorm. The vultures
above, the horses and men below, are all alike silent.
The birds, gazing intently, have ceased their harsh croaking; the
quadrupeds, as if startled by the very silence, forsaking the sweet
grass, have tossed their heads aloft, and so hold them. While the men,
hitherto speaking in whispers, no more converse, but stand mute and
motionless. They are going to deal death to two of their
fellow-creatures; and there is not one among them who does not know it
is a death undeserved--that he is about to commit murder!
For all this, not one has a thought of staying his hand. Along the
whole line there is no heart amenable to mercy, no breast throbbing with
humanity. All have been in a like position before--drawn up to fire
upon prisoners, their countrymen. The patriots of their country, too;
for the followers of Gil Uraga are all of them picked adherents of the
_parti preter_.
"_Sergente_!" asks Uraga, on coming forth from his tent, "is everything
ready?"
"All ready," is the prompt reply.
"Attention!" commands the Colonel, stepping a pace or two forward, and
speaking in a low tone, though loud enough to be heard by the lancers.
"Make ready!"
The carbines are raised to the ready.
"Take aim!"
The guns are brought to the level, their bronzed barrels glistening
under the rays of the setting sun, with muzzles pointed at the
prisoners. They who grasp them but wait for the word "Fire!"
It is forming itself on Gil Uraga's lips. But before he can speak there
comes a volley, filling the valley with sound, and the space around the
prisoners with smoke. The reports of more than forty pieces speak
almost simultaneously, none of them with the dull detonation of cavalry
carbines, but the sharper ring of the rifle!
While the last crack is still reverberating from the rocks, Uraga sees
his line of lancers prostrate along the sward; their guns, escaped from
their grasp, scattered beside them, still undischarged!