"It is a true verdict," exclaimed Sorillo; "any other would be a lie.—And now, Felipe Montilla, listen to me for the last time. You have been proved a traitor to your country, and that alone merits death; but this other crime touches the members of the Silver Key more closely. When the great men of Peru called the Indians dogs, Don Eduardo was our friend. He took our side openly, encouraged us, sympathized with us, pitied us. And you tried to slay him! not in fair fight, mind you, and only because you coveted his possessions. For that you die within forty-eight hours, as surely as the sun will rise to-morrow!" And all his hearers applauded.
The condemned man still made no reply, uttered no appeal for mercy, but stood as one dazed. But I thought of the daughter who loved him so well, and sprang to my feet.
"Hear me!" I cried excitedly. "If Don Felipe has done wrong, it is against my father. Do you think he will thank you for killing his enemy? Is that his teaching? You know it is not; you know that he would forgive him freely—would beg his life from you on his bended knees. If you really love my father, if you feel that he deserves your gratitude, spare this man's life. If he has sinned he will repent. I have come here for him. Do not let me go back alone. Am I to say to my father, 'You are foolish in thinking the Indians care for you; they care nothing! I asked of them a boon in your name, and they refused it'? Raymon Sorillo, I appeal to you, give me this man's life for my father's sake!"
I looked at him earnestly, hoping to find a spark of mercy in his eyes. Alas, there was none! He was hard as iron, cold as ice; on that day, at least, there was no pity in him.
"You are foolish," said he; "you are like a child who cries for the moon. Set this man free and he will immediately begin his old games of deceit and trickery. He cannot help himself. It is his nature, as it is a spider's to weave its web. Your father's happiness depends on this traitor's death."
I heard him patiently, and then renewed my appeal. It was quite useless.
"Remove the prisoners," said he; and at a sign the troops marched off, the officers dispersed, and none save we two remained on the platform. For a long time neither spoke. I was thinking of Rosa anxiously awaiting my return. I had bidden her hope, and there was no longer any hope. I made no attempt to deceive myself in this respect. Sorillo would do much for me, but this one thing he would not do. I dreaded the thought of returning to Lima. What would Rosa say and do when she heard of her father's shameful death? Perhaps that part might be spared her; she need not learn the whole truth. I must invent some story which would save her the knowledge of his double treachery.
At last I turned to the chief, saying, "Will you allow me to speak with Don Felipe in private? He has a daughter at home; he may wish to send her a last message."
"He is not worth your kindness; but do as you please."
I thanked him, and walked toward the hut in which Don Felipe was confined. The sentry let me pass without protest, and opening the door I entered.