This time there was no better result. Don César fired again, crying,—
"¡Viva la religión!"
Then the lieutenant angrily gave the command,—
"Fire as you please!"
An incessant crackling of musketry followed from the half company, drawn up in battle array; but the solitary enemy neither retreated nor fell. Standing on the rock, without even deigning to shelter himself behind it, he steadily loaded and fired his musket, always repeating in a terrible voice,—
"¡Viva Carlos Septimo! ¡Viva la religión!"
He rarely fired without causing some loss in the company. The moon illuminated his proud, fierce face loaded with wrinkles, giving it a fantastic appearance. His eyes gleamed like those of a madman, and his tall, lusty frame stood forth in the luminous atmosphere, like that of a supernatural being who had come down to punish offences committed against heaven.
"Do you know me, republicans, do you know me?" he cried, without ceasing to fire. "I am Don César Pardo, an old Christian and a Carlist from head to foot."
"You're a scoundrel," replied a soldier.
"Hearkee, little fellow; you're all of a tremble, and the balls you shoot go wide of the mark."