Chapter Seventy Three.
The Hand of God.
The sun is descending towards the crest of the Cordillera, his rays becoming encrimsoned as twilight approaches. They fall like streams of blood between the bluffs enclosing the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo, their tint in unison with a tragedy there about to be enacted—in itself strangely out of correspondence with the soft, tranquil scene.
The stage is the encampment of Uraga and his detachment of lancers, now set for the terrible spectacle soon to take place.
The two tents are still standing as pitched, several paces apart. At the entrance of the square one, with its flap drawn close and tied, a soldier keeps sentry; that of conical shape being unguarded.
Rearward, by the wood edge, are three horses and a mule, all four under saddle, with bridles on; these attached to the branches of a tree. There is no providence in this, but rather neglect. Since the purpose for which they were caparisoned has proved abortive, they remain so only from having been forgotten.
The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead, are browsing at the length of their lariats.
It is in the positions and attitudes of the men that a spectator might read preparation; and of a kind from which he could not fail to deduce the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise, but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be more properly designated, a military murder.