"Speak!" the count replied, suppressing a gesture of disgust.
"I wear round my neck, hanging by a steel chain, a little velvet bag, containing a blessed relic, which my mother gave me, telling me it would bring me good fortune. Since my birth this scapulary has never left me. I desire it to be buried with me. Perhaps it will be of use to me down there where I am bound."
"What you desire shall be done," the count answered.
"Thanks!" he said with evident satisfaction.
Strange anomaly of the Mexican character! This people is credulous and superstitious, without faith and without belief—a childish people, too long enslaved, and too quickly liberated, which has not had the time either to forget or to learn.
"The picket!" the count commanded.
Eight men, commanded by a corporal, stepped from the ranks. The bandit knelt, with his back turned to the executioners.
"Present—fire!"
El Garrucholo fell, shot in the back, not uttering a sigh: he was stark dead. His body was covered with a zarapé.
"Now," the count said coldly, "for the rest."