Evidently the wretch knew of what he was accused. It was also apparent that he was not the only guilty one.
"Who wrote this for you?" the commandante asked.
"I did, senor; I wrote it."
"The man lies," murmured one of the officers.
"Bring hither the son of Jose Manual," was the next order.
With that, another skeleton, a young one, stepped forward.
"I am here, senor, and I wrote the note. That is all. We two, senor. I wrote and my father ran. He was stronger, that day, than even my younger bones."
The commandante compressed his lips. He turned to the sergeant and said: "At sunset have these two men shot."
The two men merely spat upon the ground. For them death evidently had no terrors. As they were led away they made the sign of the cross again and again upon their naked breasts. A hundred starving wretches followed them in silence.
When we were again alone on the balcony—a broad, square balcony it was—the commandante noticed my look of inquiry.