"Finish him!" Miramón said, pityingly.
"No!" Cobos cried, roughly; "Let him die like a dog. The more he suffers, the more perfect our vengeance will be."
Miramón gave a look of disgust, and ordered the boot and saddle to be sounded. The troops set out. Only two men remained with the wretched man, watching him writhe at their feet in atrocious agony. These two men were General Cobos and don Jaime. Don Jaime bent down to him, raised his head, and forcing him to fix his glassy eyes on him, said in a hollow voice—
"Parricide! Traitor to your country and your brothers, the latter avenge themselves today. Die, like the dog you are. Your soul will go to the fiend who awaits it, and your body, deprived of sepulture, will be the prey of wild beasts!"
"Mercy!" the wretch cried, as he fell back. "Mercy!"
A final convulsion agitated his body, his crisped features became hideous; he uttered a horrible yell, and stirred no more. Don Jaime kicked him. He was dead!
"One!" the adventurer said, hoarsely, as he remounted.
"What?" asked General Cobos.
"Nothing; it is an account I am going over," he replied, with a burst of mocking laughter.