The spectators of this terrible scene maintained a profound silence, under a feeling of awe experienced by each of them.
A deep dejection of spirit had, in Don Fabian’s case, succeeded the energetic exercise of his will, and his face, bowed towards the earth, was as pale and as livid as that of the man upon whom he had pronounced sentence of death.
Bois-Rose—whom the frequent dangers which belonged to the life of a sailor and a hunter, had rendered callous to the physical horror with which one man looks upon the destruction of his fellow—appeared completely absorbed in the contemplations of this young man, whom he loved as a son, and whose dejected attitude showed the depth of his grief.
Pepé, on his side, endeavoured to conceal under an impenetrable mask the tumultuous feeling resulting from his now satisfied vengeance. He, as well as his two companions, remained silent.
Cuchillo alone—whose sanguinary and vindictive nature would have led him to accept gratuitously the odious office of executor—could scarcely conceal his delight at the thoughts of the enormous sum he was to receive for the wicked service.
But in this case, for once in his life, Cuchillo was to assist in an apparently legal proceeding.
“Carramba!” he ejaculated, taking Pepé’s carbine from him, and at the same time making a sign to Don Antonio; “this is an affair for which even the judge of Arispe himself would be sorry to grant me absolution.”
He advanced towards Don Antonio.
Pale, but with flashing eyes; uncertain whether in Cuchillo he beheld a saviour or an executioner, Don Estevan did not stir.
“It was foretold that I should die in a desert; I am, what you are pleased to call, convicted and condemned. God has reserved forme the infinite disgrace of dying by the hand of this man. I forgive you, Fabian; but may not this bandit prove as fatal to your life, as he will be to that of your father’s brother, as he was—”