Don Antonio, too proud to utter a falsehood, could not deny the truth without degrading himself in the eyes of his accusers, unless he destroyed the only means of defence to which his pride and the secret wish of his heart allowed him to have recourse.
“It is true,” said he, “that this man is of my own blood. I cannot deny it without polluting my lips with a lie, and an untruth is the offspring of cowardice.”
Diaz inclined his head, regained his seat, and was silent.
“You have heard,” said Fabian, “that I am indeed the son of the woman, whom this man murdered; therefore I claim the right of avenging her. What then do the laws of the desert decree?”
“Eye for eye,” said Bois-Rose.
“Tooth for tooth,” added Pepé.
“Blood for blood,” continued Fabian; “a death for a death!”
Then he rose, and addressing Don Antonio in measured accents, said: “You have shed blood and committed murder. It shall therefore be done to you as you have done to others. God commanded it to be so.”
Fabian drew his poignard from its sheath. The sun was shedding his first rays upon the scene, and every object cast a long shadow upon the ground.
A bright flash shot from the naked blade which the younger Mediana held in his hand.