The priest, Father Olmedo, now stood beside him, exhorting him to change his faith and save his soul. But the admonitions were as though spoken to the wind for all the heed the Cacique appeared to pay.
"It is useless," said Father Olmedo at last. "I have done all I can for mercy's sake, and for the glory of our most holy faith, but he is obstinate and irreclaimable. He will not hearken to me. He will not be saved. Slaves, light the pile."
The Indians raised their torches, a thrill ran through the assembled multitude, the crouching woman sprang to her feet with a piercing shriek, flinging her arms above her head, and Montoro sprang forward, shouting in stentorian tones to the faggot-lighters,
"Hold!"
There was a moment's pause. Some gleam of thankfulness began to come into the executioners' eyes. The woman dropped her arms to clasp her hands with renewed hope and entreaty. A shade of half-impatient curiosity gathered on the Cacique's face. He had betrayed no agitation at impending death, but this reprieve troubled him. And it was only a reprieve.
The passionate earnestness of Montoro did touch some answering chord in the Indian's breast which the priest had not known how to reach, and, but for that swift-flying news from Caonao, Hatuey might have consented to look forward to the Paradise which Montoro painted in such glowing colours. But, as he listened with some signs of yielding on his face, recollections crowded back upon his mind, and suddenly turning full to Montoro, he asked with startling abruptness—
"But tell me then, assure me of this. There are two of these abodes of bliss, are there?—two of these glorious, sunlit homes of paradise?"