She speaks hurriedly, and with an incredulous stare at Uraga; while at the same time her heaving, palpitating bosom shows she too truly believes what he said.
“Don Valerian is not sick,” continues the unfeeling wretch, “nor yet has he received any wound. For all this, in less than an hour he must die. It is decreed.”
“Madre de Dios! You are mocking me. His death decreed! By whom?”
“Not by me, I assure you. The military authorities of the country have been his judges, and condemned him long ago, as also Don Prospero. It only needed their capture to have the sentence carried out. This disagreeable duty has been entrusted to me. My orders at starting were to have both shot on the instant of making them captives. For your sake, senorita, I’ve so far disobeyed the rigorous command—an act which may cost me my commission. Yes, Dona Adela, for your sake.”
The tale is preposterous, and might seem to her who hears it a lie, but for her knowledge of many similar occurrences in the history of her native land, “Cosas de Mexico.” Besides, her own and her brother’s experience render it but too probable.
“Dios de mi alma!” she cries out in the anguish of conviction, “can this be true?”
“It is true.”
“Colonel Uraga, you will not carry out this cruel sentence! It is not an execution—it is an assassination! You will not stain your soul with murder?”
“I must obey orders.”
“My poor brother! Have mercy! You can save him?”