"Oh!" he shouted, in a voice that resembled the howl of a wild beast, "vengeance! Vengeance!"
A voice that seemed to issue from the tomb answered his, and Don Stefano turned round with a shudder. Two yards from him, his brother, pale, mutilated, and bleeding, was leaning against a fallen wall, like a spectre.
"Ah!" the Mexican exclaimed, as he rushed toward him.
"You come too late, brother," the wounded man murmured, in a voice choking with the death rattle.
"Oh! I will save you, brother," Don Stefano said, desperately.
"No," Don Pacheco replied sadly, shaking his head, "I am dying, brother; your foreboding did not deceive you."
"Hope!"
And, raising his brother in his powerful arms, he prepared to pay him that attention which his condition seemed to demand.
"I am dying, I tell you—all is useless," Don Pacheco continued, in a voice that momentarily grew weaker. "Listen to me."
"Speak!"