“How many?”
“Four, Captain.”
“Very well—what are you waiting for?”
“To know whether I shall hang or shoot them.”
“Shoot them, by all means! Carambo! we have no time for neck-stretching!”
“There are some nice trees here, Captain,” suggested another of the band, with as much coolness as if he had been conversing about the hanging of so many dogs. He wished—a curiosity not uncommon—to witness the spectacle of hanging.
“Madre de Dios! stupid! I tell you we haven’t time for such silly sport. Out with you there! Sanchez! Gabriel! Carlos! send your bullets through their Saxon skulls! Quick!”
Several of the Jarochos commenced unslinging their carbines, while those who guarded us fell back, to be out of range of the lead.
“Come,” exclaimed Raoul, “it can’t be worse than this—we can only die; and I’ll let the padre know whom he has got before I take leave of him. I’ll give him a souvenir that won’t make him sleep any sounder to-night. Oyez, Padré Jarauta!” continued he, calling out in a tone of irony; “have you found Marguerita yet?”
We could see between us and the dim rushlight that the Jarocho started, as if a shot had passed through his heart.