Don Estevan had listened with horror to the old hunter's words; the fearful punishment to which he was condemned had struck him with stupor; for though he expected death, that prepared for him seemed so frightful, that at first he could not believe it; still, when he saw, at a sign from Marksman, two Gambusinos set to work digging a hole, his hair stood upright with terror, an icy perspiration beaded on his temples, and he cried, in a hoarse voice, as he clasped his hands,—"Oh, not that atrocious death, I implore you; kill me at once!"
"You are condemned, and must endure your punishment, such as it was pronounced," the old hunter answered.
"Oh, give me the pistol you promised me, that I may blow out my brains on the spot. You will be avenged."
"We are not taking vengeance; the pistol will be left you when we depart."
"Oh, you are implacable!" he said, as he fell to the ground, where he writhed in impotent rage.
"We are just," Marksman merely answered.
Don Estevan, having arrived at the height of fury, leaped up suddenly, and, bounding like a jaguar, rushed head down, against a tree, with the intention of dashing out his brains. But the Gambusinos watched his movements too closely to let him carry out his desperate resolve; they seized, and, despite his obstinate resistance and wild ravings, they bound him, and rendered it impossible for him to make a movement. His wrath then changed to despair. "Oh!" he shouted, "were my brother here, he would save me. Oh, heavens! Mariano, help me, help me!"
Marksman walked up to him.
"You are about to be placed in your grave," he said to him. "Have you any final arrangements to make?"
"Then this horrible punishment is true?" he said, wildly.