the hand of god.
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!
