“Miralo, señor! mira!”
Oh, Heaven! my flesh crept as I looked upon the source of that crimson haemorrhage. Her ears had been cut off—they were wanting!
I needed no further uplifting of their hair to satisfy me that the others had been served in like manner; the red stream still trickling adown their necks was evidence enough.
The men, too, had been similarly abused. Two of them had suffered still further mutilation. They held up their right arms before my face—not their hands. There were no hands. I saw the hanging sleeve, and the blood-steeped bandage on the stump. Their hands had been chopped off at the wrists. Horrid sight!
Both men and women gathered around me, clasping my knees, and uttering prayers and entreaties. No doubt most of them were known to me by sight; but their features were now unrecognisable. They had been the friends and sweethearts of the corps, and my followers were already addressing them by name. The lovers of one or two were present, sadly embracing them!
One appeared more richly costumed than the rest, and upon her my eyes had fallen, as I first rode up. I almost dreaded to approach her, as she stood a little apart; but no—it could not be—she was not tall enough; besides, the ruffians would not dare—
“Your name, señorita?”
“Conchita, señor—la hija del alcaldé.”
The tears burst from her eyes, mingling with blood as they ran down her cheeks. Oh, that I too could have wept! Poor Wheatley! he was not with us. He had yet to receive the blow: it would soon fall.
My heart was on fire; so were those of my followers. They swore and foamed at the mouth. Some drew pistols and knives, calling out to me to lead them on. Never saw I men in such a frenzy of rage: the most cold-blooded among them seemed to have suddenly gone mad.