"I am an Englishman, my lord," said Markham, returning the proud glance of defiance and scorn which Count Santa-Croce threw upon him.
"An Englishman!" thundered the Captain-General. "Then is a military death too good for you! What brings a wretched foreigner like you amongst us with a hostile sword? You have not even the miserable subterfuge of patriotism as a palliation for your crime. Away with him! Hang him to yonder tree!"
"I have one favour to implore of your lordship," said Markham, his voice faltering not, although his cheek grew somewhat pale: "I am prepared for death—but let me not perish like a dog. Plant your soldiers at a distance of a dozen paces—let them level their muskets at me—and I promise you I shall not die a coward."
"No—you are a foreigner!" returned the Captain-General ferociously. "Away with him!"
Markham was instantly surrounded by soldiers, and dragged to the foot of a tree at a little distance.
An aide-de-camp of the Count was ordered to superintend the sad ceremony.
"Have you any thing which you desire to be communicated to your friends in your native country?" asked the officer, who was a generous-minded young man, and who, having beheld Richard's bravery in the conflict, could not help respecting him.
"I thank you sincerely for the kindness which prompts this question," replied our hero; "and all I have now to hope is that those who know me—in my native land—may not think that cowardice or dishonour closed the career of Richard Markham."
"Richard Markham!" ejaculated the officer. "Tell me—is that your name?"
"It is," answered our hero.