Chapter Sixty Eight.
After having witnessed the disgusting ceremony in the Plaza, the officers returned to their quarters at the Presidio.
As already stated, they did not return alone. The principal men of the place had been invited to dine with them—cura, padrés, alcalde, and all. The capture of the outlaw was a theme of public gratulation and rejoicing; and the Comandante and his captain—to whom was due the credit—were determined to rejoice. To that end the banquet was spread in the Presidio.
It was not thought worth while to remove Carlos to the soldiers’ prison. He could remain all night in the Calabozo. Fast bound and well guarded as he was, there was not the slightest danger of him making his escape.
To-morrow would be the last day of his life. To-morrow his foes should have the pleasure of seeing him die—to-morrow the Comandante and Roblado would enjoy their full measure of vengeance.
Even that day Vizcarra had enjoyed part of his. For the scorn with which he had been treated he had revenged himself—though it was he who from the centre of the Plaza had cried “Basta!” It was not mercy that had caused him to interfere. His words were not prompted by motives of humanity—far otherwise.
His designs were vile and brutal. To-morrow the brother would be put out of the way, and then—
The wine—the music—the jest—the loud laugh—all could not drown some bitter reflections. Ever and anon the mirror upon the wall threw back his dark face spoiled and distorted. His success had been dearly purchased—his was a sorry triumph.