“Stay, fellow, keep thyself cool awhile,” said El Manco, drily. “Thou know’st the proverb, surely—‘Hallo not until ye clear the forest;’ and now listen to your sentences. With due consideration for thy rank, alcade, thou shalt ornament a topping branch of your own beech tree. The postmaster must needs content himself with a lower bough. And for thee, good fellow,” and he addressed himself to the trembling muleteer, “no matter to what limb they attach thy worthless carcase, provided thy feet clear the court-yard by a yard or two. Off with them—let them have five minutes; and, by San Jago, that will be longer by four than the knaves deserve!”
Never, on a shorter trial, were men condemned, nor sentence more savagely delivered. To a ruthless judge, appeal or remonstrance would have been equally unwailing; and they were removed from the posada to the tree in a sort of sullen and stupid unconsciousness. Their shrift was short—the last sad ceremony hurried over—and, as the fosterer afterwards observed, “they were hanged before they could find time to bless themselves!”
The passing scene was one that would dwell long upon the fancy.—One may view the dead with indifference—the trial’s over—the goal is past.—But who can look upon “a thing of life,” whose thread of existence a few short minutes will sever, without recoiling at the thought? So much had these sad reflections occupied my mind, that I forgot there were others besides those on whom I had just looked my last, who were standing on the confines of eternity. But these musings were interrupted. Without, a rolling volley was suddenly delivered. It knelled the doom of the luckless voltigeurs—and by a similar impulse, Mark Antony and I sprang from the bench, and rushed forward to the casement which looked out upon the courtyard.
For a moment the smoke from the guerilla muskets partially obscured our view—but as it rose upwards, we saw the unhappy sufferers stretched in a line before the wall—dead, or rolling in the agonies of death. There was one singular exception;—an officer appeared to have escaped—for he stood upright and firmly on his feet, with his hand across his bosom. In military executions, some loaded muskets are always reserved to abridge the sufferings of the condemned, should the volley of the firing party fail to end existence. But the partidas were willing executioners—every piece had been discharged—and though the Frenchman boldly called on them to “fire!”—the order was not obeyed.
[Original]
To rescue the gallant victim was my instant determination, and I appealed warmly to the Empecinado in his favour. The Spaniard shook his head—and the Cura and El Manco protested against any exercise of mercy. The guerillas commenced reloading—in a few brief moments the deed would be effected, and remonstrance of no avail—but a sudden impulse of generous ardour eventually proved successful. The fosterer bounded from the casement to the courtyard—sprang through the crowd, passed along the front of the firing party, clasped the condemned soldier in his arms, and swore in very excellent Irish, and by every saint he could remember at the time, that to reach the Frenchman’s body, the bullets must pass first through his.
There was not a partida in that wild band who did not personally estimate Mark Antony as the saviour of their chief—but still the fosterer’s was a dangerous and doubtful experiment. It was interposing between the tiger who has tasted blood, and the victim already underneath his paw. Dark looks were turned upon the preserved and the preserver—and muttered oaths were heard, like the distant growl which heralds the bursting of a thundercloud. The Empecinado, who witnessed the occurrence from the casement, however, lulled the coming storm—and in a voice that to be heard was to be obeyed, he commanded the surviving prisoner to be conducted to his presence; and next moment Lieutenant Cammaran entered the kitchen of the pesada—on one side guarded by a guerilla—on the other supported by the honest fosterer, who still, for better security, encircled the Frenchman with his arm.
Scott says that “a kinsman is part of a man’s body, but a fosterbrother is a piece of his heart.” The truth of the remark never came so home to me before. In infancy, the same bosom had sustained us,—in childhood, our joys and sorrows were the same,—in youth, Mark Antony had followed my fortunes, and in manhood preserved my life. No wonder, that for him mine was indeed a brother’s love. But I never felt so proud of our relationship, as when I saw the fosterer confront the guerilla chiefs, with his arm locked firmly round the poor French voltigeur.