“Are the prisoners ready?” said Colonel La Coste to the priest.
Both the partidas returned a steady—“Yes.”
The Frenchman waved his arm, and, with a voltigeur on either side, the condemned guerillas left the kitchen of the posada for the court-yard.
I followed in the crowd—in fact, I was not regarded as a prisoner. I mingled with the chasseurs, and, in the interest which the coming event occasioned, I seemed to be forgotten altogether. We entered the fatal enclosure—and although the villagers had been summoned to witness the execution, not a dozen of the peasantry were to be seen; and, on their affrighted countenances, horror and indignation were apparent.
In the centre of the court-yard, twenty voltigeurs were drawn up in double files, with ordered arms, and commanded by a lieutenant. A dead wall was directly opposite, at the distance of twelve paces; and thither the Spaniards were conducted by their escort.
Colonel La Coste took his stand on the right of the firing party, some half dozen paces from the subordinate officer that commanded it; and, on either side, the chasseurs and peasantry formed a line of lookers-on.
The Colonel advanced two steps, as the Cura kissed and blessed the sufferers for the last time.
“Wilt thou be free?—you know the terms,” he said, addressing the elder of the partidas.
“No!” was calmly answered.
“Enough!—your blood be on your own head, and not on mine.”