"Thanks!" he said, with a graceful bow.
"But," the count continued, "as you are convicted of treason, and must suffer the death of traitors—that is, be shot in the back—taking into consideration the uniform you wear, which is that of the Mexican army, which we do not wish to disgrace in your person, you will be first degraded: the judgment will be executed immediately after."
The bandit shrugged his shoulders.
"What do I care?" he said.
At a sign from the count a non-commissioned officer stepped from the ranks, and the degradation commenced. El Garrucholo endured this frightful humiliation without turning pale: the bandit had in him completely gained the mastery over the caballero, and, as he said, he cared little about being degraded—that is to say, dishonoured—-because honour to him was as nothing. When the subaltern had returned to the ranks the count again addressed the condemned man.
"You have five minutes to commend your soul to God," he said to him. "May He be merciful to you! You have nothing more to expect in this world from men."
The bandit burst into a hoarse laugh.
"You are all fools!" he shouted. "What have I in common with God, if really He exist? I had better recommend myself to the demon, into whose clutches I shall fall, if what the monks say is true."
At this frightful blasphemy the adventurers gave a start of terror; but El Garrucholo did not seem to notice it.
"I have," he continued, "only one favour more to ask of you."