"Very good," the masked man continued coldly; then, planting his torch in the ground, he turned to the spectators. "Brothers," he said, "what punishment has this man deserved?"
"Death!" the masked men answered, in a hollow voice.
Don Melchior was not at all affected.
"You are condemned to death," the man continued who had hitherto spoken. "The sentence will be executed at this spot. You have half an hour to prepare to meet your God."
"In what way shall I die?" the young man asked, carelessly.
"By the rope."
"That death as soon as another," he said, with an ironical smile.
"We do not arrogate the right of killing the soul with the body," the masked man continued; "a priest will hear the confession of your faults."
"Thanks!" the young man said, laconically.
The masked man stood for a second, as if expecting that don Melchior would address another request to him; but seeing that he continued to maintain silence, he took up his torch again, fell back two paces, waved it thrice, and extinguished it beneath his foot. All the other torches were put out at the same moment. A slight rustling of dry leaves and broken branches was heard, and don Melchior found himself alone. Still, the young man did not deceive himself as to this apparent solitude. He understood that his enemies, though invisible, continued to watch him. A man, however well tempered his mind may be, however great his energy, though he has looked death in the face a hundred times, when he is twenty years of age, that is to say, when he finds himself scarcely on the threshold of existence, and the future smiles on him through the intoxicating prism of youth, cannot thus completely forget himself, and, without any transition, pass from life to death, without feeling an utter and sudden enervation of all his intellectual faculties, and suffering a horrible agony and nervous contraction of all his muscles, especially this death which awaits him full of life and youth, is inflicted on him coldly at night, and has an indelible brand of infamy. Hence, spite of all his courage and resolution, don Melchior suffered an awful agony. At the root of every hair, which stood on end with terror, gathered a drop of cold perspiration. His features were frightfully contracted, and a livid and earthy pallor covered his face. At this moment a hand was gently laid on his shoulder. He started as if he had received an electric shock, and sharply raised his head. A monk was standing before him, with his hood pulled down over his face.