The Marquesito was beginning to feel faint from the loss of blood; so he decided to risk all for all.
“Let’s see if we can’t finish this business,” he murmured between his clenched teeth; and he advanced, limping resolutely toward the soldier. After a few steps he discharged his gun point blank, and immediately after, his pistol.
When he saw that his enemy had not fallen, that he was still standing, he tried to escape, but his strength failed him. Then the soldier took aim and fired. The Marquesito fell headlong ... he was dead. The ball had struck him in the back of the neck and had come out through one of his eyes, shattering his skull.
“He was a brave chap,” murmured the soldier as he gazed at the corpse; then he kneeled by his side and searched his clothes. He wrapped his watch and chain, his shirt studs, and his money, in a handkerchief, tied it in a knot, and made his way back to the tavern.
As he drew near, he heard a voice wailing in despair:
“Oh, mother! Oh, mother! Oh, my dearest mother!”
In the clearing before the house was Fuensanta, half-undressed, livid, with her face black and blue from the beating her father had given her. The girl was moaning upon the ground, terror-stricken. La Temeraria, with her arms lifted tragically, was shouting:
“She has dishonoured us! She has dishonoured us!”
The innkeeper’s other daughter stood in the doorway, watching her sister as she dragged herself along the ground, exhausted by her beating.
“Don’t beat the girl like that,” said the soldier.