The female prisoners remained in the Calabozo. Carlos, for better
security, was carried on to the Presidio, and placed in the prison of
the guard-house.
That night he received a visit. The Comandante and Roblado could not
restrain their dastard spirits from indulging in the luxury of revenge.
Having emptied their wine-cups, they, with a party of boon companions,
entered the guard prison, and amused themselves by taunting the chained
captive. Every insult was put upon him by his half-drunken visitors--
every rudeness their ingenuity could devise.
For long all this was submitted to in silence. A coarse jest from
Vizcarra at length provoked reply. The reply alluded to the changed
features of the latter, which so exasperated the brute, that he dashed,
dagger in hand, upon the bound victim, and would have taken his life,
but that Roblado and others held him back! He was only prevented from
killing Carlos by his companions declaring that such a proceeding would
rob them of their anticipated sport! This consideration alone
restrained him; but he was not contented until with his fists he had
inflicted several blows upon the face of the defenceless captive!
"Let the wretch live!" said Roblado. "To-morrow we shall have a fine
spectacle for him!"
With this the inebriated gang staggered out, leaving the prisoner to
reflect upon this promised "spectacle."
He did reflect upon it. That he was to be made a spectacle he
understood well enough. He had no hopes of mercy, either from civil or
military judges. His death was to be the spectacle. All night long his
soul was tortured with painful thoughts, not of himself, but about those
far dearer to him than his own life.
Morning glanced through the narrow loophole of his gloomy cell. Nothing
else--nought to eat, to drink--no word of consolation--no kind look from
his ruffian gaolers. No friend to make inquiry about him--no sign that
a single heart on earth cared for him.
Midday arrived. He was taken, or rather dragged, from his prison.
Troops formed around, and carried him off. Where was he going? To
execution?
His eyes were free. He saw himself taken to the town, and through the
Plaza. There was an unusual concourse of people. The square was nearly
filled, and the azoteas that commanded a view of it. All the
inhabitants of the settlement seemed to be present in the town. There
were haciendados, rancheros, miners, and all. Why? Some grand event
must have brought them together. They had the air of people who
expected to witness an unusual scene. Perhaps the "spectacle" promised
by Roblado! But what could that be? Did they intend to torture him in
presence of the multitude? Such was not improbable.
The crowd jeered him as he passed. He was carried through their midst,
and thrust into the Calabozo.
A rude _banqueta_ along one side of his cell offered a resting-place.
On this the wretched man sank down into a lying posture. The fastenings
on his arms and legs would not allow him to sit upright.
He was left alone. The soldiers who had conducted him went out, turning
the key behind them. Their voices and the clink of their scabbards told
him that some of them still remained by the door. Two of them had been
left there as sentinels. The others sauntered off, and mingled with the
crowd of civilians that filled the Plaza.
Carlos lay for some minutes without motion--almost without thought. His
soul was overwhelmed with misery. For the first time in his life he
felt himself yielding to despair.
The feeling was evanescent; and once more he began to reflect--not to
hope--no! Hope, they say dies but with life: but that is a paradox. He
still lived, but hope had died. Hope of escape there was none. He was
too well guarded. His exasperated enemies, having experienced the
difficulty of his capture, were not likely to leave him the slightest
chance of escape. Hope of pardon--of mercy--it never entered his
thoughts to entertain either.
But reflection returned.
It is natural for a captive to glance around the walls of his prison--to
assure himself that he is really a prisoner. It is his first act when
the bolt shoots from the lock, and he feels himself alone. Obedient to
this impulse, the eye of Carlos was raised to the walls, his cell was
not a dungeon--a small window, or embrasure, admitted light. It was
high up, but Carlos saw that, by standing upon the banqueta, he could
have looked out by it. He had no curiosity to do so, and he lay still.
He saw that the walls of his prison were not of stone. They were
_adobe_ bricks, and the embrasure enabled him to tell their thickness.
There was no great strength in them either. A determined man, with an
edge-tool and time to spare, could make his way through them easily
enough. So Carlos reflected: but he reflected, as well, that he had
neither the edge-tool nor the time. He was certain that in a few
hours--perhaps minutes--he would be led from that prison to the
scaffold.
Oh! he feared not death--not even torture, which he anticipated would be
his lot. His torture was the thought of eternal separation from mother,
sister, from the proud noble girl he loved--the thought that he would
never again behold them--one or other of them--this was the torture that
maddened his soul.
Could he not communicate with them? Had he no friend to carry to them a
last word?--to convey a dying thought? None.
The sunbeam that slanted across the cell was cut off at intervals, and
the room darkened. Something half covered the embrasure without. It
was the face of some idle lepero, who, curious to catch a glimpse of the
captive, had caused himself to be hoisted upon the shoulders of his
fellows. The embrasure was above the heads of the crowd. Carlos could
hear their brutal jests, directed not only against himself, but against
those dear to him--his mother and sister. While this pained him, he
began to wonder that they should be so much the subject of the
conversation. He could not tell what was said of them, but in the hum
of voices their names repeatedly reached his ear. He had lain about an
hour on the banqueta, when the door opened, and the two officers,
Vizcarra and Roblado, stepped within the cell. They were accompanied by
Gomez.
The prisoner believed that his hour was come. They were going to lead
him forth to execution. He was wrong. That was not their design. Far
different. They had come to gloat over his misery. Their visit was to
be a short one. "Now, my brave!" began Roblado. "We promised you a
spectacle to-day. We are men of our word. We come to admonish you that
it is prepared, and about to come off. Mount upon that banqueta, and
look out into the Plaza; you will have an excellent view of it; and as
it is near you will need no glass! Up then! and don't lose time. You
will see what you will see. Ha! ha! ha!"
And the speaker broke into a hoarse laugh, in which the Comandante as
well as the sergeant joined; and then all three, without waiting for a
reply, turned and went out, ordering the door to be locked behind them.
The visit, as well as Roblado's speech, astonished and puzzled Carlos.
For some minutes he sat reflecting upon it. What could it mean? A
_spectacle_, and he to be a _spectator_? What spectacle but that of his
own execution? What could it mean?
For a time he sat endeavouring to make out the sense of Roblado's words.
For a good while he pondered over the speech, until at length he had
found, or thought he had found, the key to its meaning.
"Ha!" muttered he; "Don Juan--it is he! My poor friend! They have
condemned him, too; and he is to die before me. That is what I am
called upon to witness. Fiends! I shall not gratify them by looking at
it. No! I shall remain where I am."
He threw himself once more prostrate along the banqueta, determined to
remain in that position. He muttered at intervals:--
"Poor Don Juan!--a true friend--to death--ay, even to death, for it is
for me he dies--for me, and--oh! love--love--"
His reflections were brought to a sudden termination. The window was
darkened by a face, and a rough voice called in:--
"Hola! Carlos, you butcher of buffaloes! look forth! _Carajo_! here's
a sight for you! Look at your old witch of a mother! What a figure she
cuts! Ha! ha!"
The sting of a poisonous reptile--a blow from an enemy--could not have
roused Carlos more rapidly from his prostrate attitude. As he sprang to
an upright position, the fastenings upon his ankles were forgotten; and,
after staggering half across the floor, he came down upon his knees.
A second effort was made with more caution, and this time he succeeded
in keeping his feet. A few moments sufficed for him to work himself up
to the banqueta; and, having mounted this, he applied his face to the
embrasure and looked forth.
His eyes rested upon a scene that caused the blood to curdle in his
veins, and started the sweat in bead-drops over his forehead. A scene
that filled his heart with horror, that caused him to feel as if some
hand was clutching and compressing it between fingers of iron!