Paola wore again the old, inane smile that always lent his face an indescribable leer of idiocy. I knew, by this time, that the expression was indeed a mask to cover his real feelings, and idly wondered if he would choose to die with that detestable simper upon his lips.
“Come, gentlemen; we are ready.”
It was the captain who spoke, and we rose obediently and filed through the doorway, closely guarded by the Uruguayans.
In the vacant space that served as a yard for Bastro’s house stood a solitary date-palm with a straight, slender trunk. Before this we halted, and Bastro was led to the tree and a rope passed around his body securing him to the trunk. They offered to blindfold him, but he waved the men aside.
“It will please me best to look into the muzzles of your guns,” said the patriot, in a quiet voice. “I am not afraid, Senhor Captain.”
De Souza glanced at the sun. It was slowly sinking, a ball of vivid red, into the bosom of the far-away plateau.
At a gesture from the officer six of the guardsmen stepped forward and leveled their carbines upon Bastro, who stood upright against the tree, with a proud smile upon his manly face.
I turned away my head, feeling sick and dizzy; and the rattle of carbines set me trembling with nervous horror. Nor did I look toward the tree again, although, after an interval of silence, I heard the tramp of soldiers bearing Bastro’s body to the deserted house.
“Number two!” cried de Souza, harshly.
It was no time to turn craven. My own death was but a question of moments, and I realized that I had little time to bid farewell to my kind friend and strive to cheer him upon his way. Going to his side I seized Dom Miguel’s hand and pressed it to my lips; but he was not content with that, and caught me in a warm and affectionate embrace.