His looks more than his voice betrayed the fearful fire that was burning within. Those who by chance or curiosity glanced into the embrasure were appalled by the expression of that face. Its muscles were rigid and swollen, the eyes were fixed and ringed with purple, the teeth firmly set, the lips drawn tight over them, and large sweat-drops glistened upon the forehead. No red showed upon the cheeks, nor any part of the face—not a trace to tell that blood circulated there. Pale as death was that face, and motionless as marble.
From his position Carlos could see but two angles of the Plaza—that where the cruel scene had its commencement, and that where the second portion was administered. The procession then passed out of sight; but though his eyes were no longer tortured by the horrid spectacle, there was but little relief in that. He knew it continued all the same.
He remained no longer by the window. A resolve carried him from it,—the resolve of self-destruction!
His agony was complete. He could endure it no longer. Death would relieve him, and upon death he was determined.
But how to die?
He had no weapon; and even if he had, pinioned as he was, he could not have used it.
But one mode seemed possible—to dash his head against the wall!
A glance at the soft mason-work of adobes convinced him that this would not effect his purpose. By such an effort he might stun, but not kill himself. He would wake again to horrid life.
His eyes swept the cell in search of some mode of self-destruction.
A beam traversed the apartment. It was high enough to hang the tallest man. With his hands free, and a cord in them, it would do. There was cord enough on them for the purpose, for they were bound by several varas of a raw-hide thong.