Fanaticism is stronger than pity; and who cared for the witch and the heretic?
Yes—there were some who cared yet. There were hands that unbound the cords, and chafed the brows of the sufferers, and flung rebosos over their shoulders and poured water into the lips of those silent victims—silent, for both had fainted!
A rude carreta was there. How it came there no one knew or cared. It was getting dusk, and people, having satisfied their curiosity, and hungry from long fasting, were falling off to their homes. The brawny driver of the carreta, directed by a young girl, and aided by two or three dusky Indians, lifted the sufferers into his vehicle, and then, mounting himself, drove off; while the young girl, and two or three who had assisted him, followed the vehicle.
It cleared the suburbs, and, striking into a byroad that traversed the chapparal, arrived at a lone rancho, the same where Rosita had been taken before—for it was Josefa who again carried her away.
The sufferers were taken inside the house. It was soon perceived that one no longer suffered. The daughter was restored to consciousness, only to see that that of her mother had for ever fled!
Her temples were chafed—her lips moistened—her hand pressed in vain. The wild utterance of a daughter’s grief fell unheard upon her ears. Death had carried her spirit to another world.
Chapter Sixty Five.
From the embrasure of his prison Carlos looked upon the terrible spectacle. We have said that he regarded it in silence. Not exactly so. Now and then, as the blood-stained lash fell heavier than usual, a low groan escaped him—the involuntary utterance of agony extreme.