By this time the valley, with the growing of the day, began to lose much of its evil aspect, and the eye, tempted through glades and vistas, lingered upon gorgeous forms of inflorescence. The land baron slowly blew a wreath of smoke in the air––a circle, mute reminder of eternity!––and threw the end of the cigar into the bushes. Looking long and earnestly at the surrounding scene, he started involuntarily. “The dark valley––whar de mists am risin’––I see yo’ da, honey––fo’ebber and fo’ebber––”
As he surveyed this prospect, with these words ringing in his ears, the brief silence was broken by a bugle call and the trampling of feet.
“The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall arise,” said the prisoner, turning and facing the soldiers calmly. “You have come for me?” he asked, quietly.
“Yes,” said the officer in command. “General Scott has granted your request in view of certain circumstances, and you will be shot, instead of hanged.”
The face of the prisoner lighted wonderfully. He drew himself erect and smiled with some of the assumption of the old insolence, that expression Saint-Prosper so well remembered! His features took on a semblance to the careless, dashing look they had borne when the soldier crossed weapons with him at the Oaks, and he neither asked nor intended to give quarter.
“I thank you,” he observed, courteously. “At least, I shall die like a gentleman. I am ready, sir! Do not fasten my hands. A Mauville can die without being tied or bound.”
The officer hesitated: “As to that––” he began.
“It is a reasonable request,” said Saint-Prosper, in a low tone.
Mauville abruptly wheeled; his face, dark and sinister, was lighted with envenomed malignity; an unnaturally clear perception replaced the stupor of his brain, and, bending toward Saint-Prosper, his eye rested upon him with such rancor and malevolence the soldier involuntarily drew away. But one word fell from the land baron’s lips, low, vibrating, full of inexpressible bitterness. “Traitor!”