The whip fell. The horse gave a spring forwards. At the same moment Bob made a desperate clutch at the bridle, and a loud “Hold!” burst in thrilling tones from the lips of the judge.
It was too late; Bob was already hanging. The judge pushed forward, nearly riding down the man who held the whip, and, seizing Bob in his arms, raised him on his own horse, supporting him with one hand, whilst with the other he strove to unfasten the noose. His whole gigantic frame trembled with eagerness and exertion. The procurador, corregidors—all, in short, stood in open-mouthed wonder at this strange proceeding.
“Whisky! whisky! Has nobody any whisky!” shouted the judge.
One of the men sprang forward with a whisky-flask, another supported the body, and a third the feet, of the half-hanged man, whilst the judge poured a few drops of spirits into his mouth. The cravat, which had not been taken off, had hindered the breaking of the neck. Bob at last opened his eyes, and gazed vacantly around him.
“Bob,” said the judge, “you had something to say, hadn’t you, about Johnny?”
“Johnny,” gasped Bob, “Johnny.”
“What’s become of him?”
“He’s gone to San Antonio, Johnny.”
“To San Antonio!” repeated the judge, with an expression of great alarm overspreading his features.
“To San Antonio—to Padre José,” continued Bob; “a Catholic. Beware!”