There was a movement among the soldiers. Some of them separated from the group which surrounded the prisoners, and led—treating him roughly—before their chief a half-caste of pitiful mien, with squinting eyes and thickset limbs, who, for more safety, no doubt, they had firmly bound round the neck with a lasso.
Don Zeno Cabral looked for a moment at this man—who stood humble and trembling before him—with a singular mixture of pity and disgust.
"You are convicted of treason," said he to him at last. "I have the right to hang you. I give you five minutes to commend your soul to God."
"I am innocent, noble General," murmured the wretch, falling on his knees, and hanging down his head with fear.
The general shrugged his shoulders, and turned towards the officers, with whom he began to talk in a low voice, without appearing to hear the prayers that the prisoner continued to address to him in a crying tone.
Three or four minutes passed. A funereal silence characterised the attentive crowd of the Montoneros.
It is always a serious matter, that condemnation to death, pronounced coldly, resolutely, and without appeal, even for men habituated to stake their lives on the hazard of a die, like those who were assisting at this scene; thus, in spite of themselves, they felt themselves seized with a secret fright, increased by the doleful sounds of the voice of the wretch who was writhing with fear in their midst, and imploring with sobs the pity of their chief.
The latter turned round, and making a sign to Captain Quiroga—
"It is time," said he.
"¡Caray!" said the captain; "The pícaro has been long enough seeking the gallows; he will not have cheated it, that will be at least a satisfaction for him in his last moments."