He was clothed in a complete suit of black velvet without lace; a heavy gold chain hung round his neck, a broad leafed hat of black felt, ornamented with an eagle's feather, covered his head, a long sword, with a hilt of polished steel, hung by his side.
His brow was marked with wrinkles, his eyebrows were closely knitted above his black eyes, which appeared to dart lightning.
A shudder of terror pervaded the ranks of the assembly—Don Ramón Garillas had put on the robe of justice.
Justice was then about to be done?
But upon whom?
When Don Ramón had taken his place on the right hand of his wife, he made a sign.
The mayoral went out, and returned a minute after, followed by Rafaël.
The young man was bareheaded, and had his hands tied behind his back.
With his eyes cast down, and a pale face, he placed himself before his father, whom he saluted respectfully.
At the period at which our history passes, in those countries remote from towns and exposed to the continual incursions of the Indians, the heads of families preserved, in all its purity, that patriarchal authority which the efforts of our depraved civilization have a tendency to lessen, and, at length, to destroy. A father was sovereign in his own house, his judgments were without appeal, and executed without murmurs or resistance.