Fortunato had gone into the house when his father arrived, but now he reappeared with a bowl of milk which he handed with downcast eyes to Gianetto.
“Get away from me!” cried the outlaw, in a loud voice. Then, turning to one of the soldiers, he said:
“Comrade, give me a drink.”
The soldier placed his gourd in his hands, and the prisoner drank the water handed to him by a man with whom he had just exchanged bullets. He then asked them to tie his hands across his breast instead of behind his back.
“I like,” said he, “to lie at my ease.”
They hastened to satisfy him; then the Adjutant gave the signal to start, said adieu to Mateo, who did not respond, and descended with rapid steps towards the plain.
Nearly ten minutes elapsed before Mateo spoke. The child looked with restless eyes, now at his mother, now at his father, who was leaning on his gun and gazing at him with an expression of concentrated rage.
“You begin well,” said Mateo at last with a calm voice, but frightful to one who knew the man.
“Oh, father!” cried the boy, bursting into tears, and making a forward movement as if to throw himself on his knees. But Mateo cried, “Away from me!”
The little fellow stopped and sobbed, immovable, a few feet from his father.