“But, Señor Colonel, what do you want with the ropes?” inquired the Lieutenant, with a significant smile.
“For the execution of these brigands. We shall hang them to the last man, my dear Veraegui.”
“Good!” assented the Catalan, in a joyous accent, “and this time by the heels, I hope. I shall never forgive myself for my foolish indulgence—”
“What! you have spared some of them?” interrupted Don Rafael.
“I have been too merciful to four whom I captured yesterday—in hanging them by the necks. But, by the way, Colonel, now I think of it, two odd fellows came in a while ago, who say that they wish to speak with you.”
“I cannot receive them now,” answered Don Rafael, little suspecting the supreme happiness their message would have given him. “I shall see them on my return. We have already wasted too much time, while the worthy proprietor of San Carlos is no doubt counting the minutes in anguish. I shall not even stay to change my dress; so haste, and get your men upon horseback.”
“Sound ‘Boots and saddles!’” cried the Lieutenant, hurrying into the courtyard to give further orders; while Don Rafael, under the pretext of being alone for a few minutes, walked out into the garden, and directed his steps towards the spot where, two years before, he had deposited the remains of his father in the tomb.
His spirit once more excited by the revelations made by the domestic of Don Fernando, he felt he needed a moment of prayer to strengthen him for this final effort for the punishment of his father’s assassins. The murder of his father had been for him a terrible blow, but, as time passed, even this grief, by little and little, had become appeased.
Far different was it with that other passion—which neither time, nor absence, nor the constant changing of scene, nor the duties of an active campaign, had been able to eradicate from his bosom.
He now knew that Gertrudis reciprocated his ardent love—that she was dying of it; and, in the midst of the mournful joy which this news had produced, he could have forgotten that his father’s death was not yet avenged, as he had sworn it should be. One of the assassins was at no great distance from him, and yet he could scarcely restrain himself from yielding to the almost irresistible desire of galloping direct to Oajaca, where he supposed Gertrudis to be, and then, flinging himself at her feet, confessing that, without her, he could no longer live.