"Perez," he called to his sergeant riding behind him, "dispose of these bodies. Throw the heretic dogs into the old well yonder. Give our martyred friends Christian burial."
He sat his horse idly toying with his dagger, and forced me to watch my servants, the wounded and the dead, being cast into the yawning darkness of the well.
"God's blood! here is our sweet young Philip. What, not yet dead! Why, it matters not, cast him in." This in answer to a questioning look from the more merciful Perez.
The men at arms had extricated from a heap of slain the limp body of my youngest brother, a boy of twenty, his pallid face gaping open from a cut across the cheek. He lifted his eyes languidly to mine.
"Oh brother, you are come. Some water, water," he murmured.
"Throw him in, men," Ortez interrupted.
Perez yet hesitated.
"Shall we not first dispatch him, sire?"
"No, I would not harm my gentle brother; throw him in. Be not slow about it either, thou chicken-hearted bullies; pitch him in."
The men started to obey this savage order.