An hour later, a hundred of the most notable inhabitants of Menda came up to the terrace, according to the general’s orders, to be witnesses of the execution of the family of Leganés. A detachment of soldiers was posted to keep back the Spaniards, who were drawn up beneath the gallows on which the Marquis’s domestics had been hanged. The heads of the townsmen almost touched the feet of those martyrs. Thirty paces distant from them, a block rose, and a scimitar gleamed. The executioner was there in case of a refusal on the part of Juanito. Soon, amid the most profound silence, the Spaniards heard the footsteps of several persons, the measured sound of the march of a picket of soldiers, and the slight rattle of their muskets. These different sounds were blended with the merry accents from the officers’ mess, as the dance-music of the ball had disguised the preparations for the sanguinary treachery of the other night. All eyes were turned towards the Castle, and they saw the noble family advancing with incredible firmness. Every brow was calm and serene. One man only, pale and in disorder, leaned on the priest, who expended all the consolations of religion on this man, the only one who was to live. The executioner understood, as did every one else, that Juanito had taken his place for a day. The old Marquis and his wife, Clara, Mariquita, and their two brothers, came and knelt a few paces from the fatal spot. Juanito was led by the priest. When he arrived at the block, the executioner, taking him by the sleeve, drew him aside, and gave him, probably, some instructions. The confessor placed the victims in such a position that they could not see the executions. But they were true Spaniards, and held themselves erect and unfaltering.
Clara darted first to her brother. “Juanito,” she said to him, “have pity on my want of courage, and begin with me!”
At that moment, the precipitate steps of a man resounded. Victor arrived on the place of this scene. Clara had already knelt down, her white neck invited the scimitar. The officer turned pale, but he found strength to hasten up to her.
“The General grants you your life, if you will marry me,” he said to her in an undertone.
The Spaniard darted a look of contempt and pride at the officer. “Go on, Juanito!” she said in deep accents.
Her head rolled at Victor’s feet. The Marchioness of Leganés let a convulsive movement escape her when she heard the sound; it was the only sign of her grief.
“Am I right like this, my good Juanito?” was the demand which little Manuel made of his brother.
“Ah, you weep, Mariquita!” said Juanito to his sister.
“Oh, yes!” responded the young girl. “I am thinking of you, my poor Juanito: you will be very unhappy without us!”
Soon the tall figure of the Marquis appeared. He gazed upon the blood of his children, turned towards the hushed and motionless spectators, stretched out his hands towards Juanito, and said in a loud voice: “Spaniards, I give my son his father’s blessing! Now Marquis, strike without fear, you are without reproach.”