In dead silence they were placed in a line, and at the foot of the table, where the bodies of “the Student” and his comrade were extended. Bending on the devoted wretches a scowl of indescribable ferocity, the Empecinado thus addressed them:—
“Spaniards—but in name—false to your God, faithless to your country!—have ye aught to say why a felon death should not be instantly awarded?”
The hopeless agony which the faces of the criminals thus addressed exhibited, shall never fade from my memory. Colourless—wordless—their white lips moved; but not a syllable was articulated but the single supplication, half lost, half heard, of “mercy!”
“Mercy!” returned their stern judge, “Mercy!”—and he laughed. Oh! what a laugh it was!—“Mercy, and from me! Look round gaze upon your victims—and then ask mercy from Juan Diez But softly, we must be just. The mockery of a trial was extended to our comrades, and a similar act of justice shall be meted out to you. I shall be the accuser, and those shall be your judges and he pointed to El Manco and the Curate. Yes, justice ye shall have; and I swear, by the decree only of these worthy gentlemen, life or death shall be determined!”
He placed his hand within his jacket, and then slowly pulling out several written documents, selected two or three, and then proceeded with his address.
“Answer me briefly—speak truth—for, remember, the first falsehood ensures the transfer of yonder halters from arm to neck. Jose de Toro,” he continued, turning to the postmaster, “knowst thou this handwriting?”
The person questioned gave a hurried look at the well remembered characters, and, with the sickly hope that, leaning on a straw, still clings desperately to life, he at once determined to betray his guilty companion.
“Noble sir,” he muttered, “that writing is the alcades.”
“Thou hearest,” said the Empecinado, handing the fatal document to the Cura. “Honest Sancho thou wert bearer of a letter, two nights ago, addressed to Captain St. Pierre. Wouldst thou know it, honest Sancho?” and the word honest hissed sarcastically between his teeth.
To the unfortunate muleteer, life was dear as to the postmaster. He took the fatal packet in his hand, looked at it attentively, and then replied, that he had indeed received it from Jose de Toro, under a promise of ten dollars for its safe delivery, which promise had been faithfully fulfilled.