The officer read them aloud, but with a choking utterance.
For a moment his head fell pensively forward upon his breast. Then on a sudden he raised it again—as if in obedience to a secret resolve—saying as he did so, in a voice husky with emotion—
“Where shall I find the fiends? Where? No matter!—find them I shall. Night or day, no rest for me—no rest for them, till I have hung both their heads in the place of this one!”
“How now,” he continued after a pause, “how can I combat in a cause like this? Can a son fight under the same flag with the assassins of his father? Never!”
“For Spain, then!” he cried out, after another short moment of silence. “For Spain shall my sword be drawn!” And raising his voice into a louder tone, he pronounced with furious emphasis—
“Viva Espana! Mueran a los bandidos!” (Spain for ever! Death to the brigands!)
Saying this, the dragoon dismounted from his horse, and knelt reverentially in front of that ghastly image.
“Head of my venerable and beloved father!” said he, “I swear by your grey hairs, crimsoned with your own blood, to use every effort in my power, by sword and by fire, to nip in the bud this accursed insurrection—one of whose first acts has been to rob you of your innocent life. May God give me strength to fulfil my vow!”
At that moment a voice from within seemed to whisper in his ear, repeating the words of his mistress:—
“May all those who raise an arm in favour of Spain be branded with infamy and disgrace! May they find neither a roof to shelter them, nor a woman to smile upon them! May the contempt of those they love be the reward of every traitor to his country!”