How he had escaped mortal injury seemed the miracle: two balls had passed through his chaco, his epaulette was divided by another, the jacket perforated by several, and yet not one bullet of a dozen aimed at him had even razed the skin! In such a presence, and under such circumstances, to remain unmoved, required a powerful exercise of moral courage. Few there were, who bore the name of Frenchman, who would have coveted an interview with Juan Diez. El Manco, in desperate severity towards the invaders, bore even a more terrible reputation than the Empecinado; and although the Cura was a learned and pious churchman, as it might have been presumed, still, from divers exploits ascribed to him, in which unbounded liberties had been taken with life and limb, there was not a follower of the intruder who would not have preferred an interview with the archenemy himself.
“Thou hast been condemned to death,” said Juan Diez, addressing the prisoner.
“I have,” replied the captive, steadily, “and the only marvel is that the sentence has not been yet completed.”
“Humph! But for the thoughtless interference of this rash young man, that marvel would have been ended speedily,” returned the Empecinado. “Hast thou aught to ask before——” And he made a pause.
“The experiment shall be tried more successfully,” said the Frenchman, coolly. “Yes; I have an orphan daughter! My poor Pauline!—thou hast no mother to protect thee—and in an hour thou wilt be fatherless! I would send her all I have—my parting blessing; and, with your permission, write a brief letter, which this kind and gallant youth will, I have no doubt, endeavour to get safely conveyed to Paris.”
“Mona sin diaoul!” exclaimed the fosterer, drawing the back of his hand across his eyes, “Miss Pauline shall get it, though I walked every inch of the road, and committed highway robbery for my expenses.”
“Thy request is granted. Diego, bring my portefeuille hither. And make the letter short,” continued El Manco, coldly; “I have some ten leagues to ride after thy execution; I’ll wait until it’s over, for I hate to leave a job half done.”
“Gracious God!” I exclaimed; “surely this cannot be serious! Pause, Don Juan!—One so miraculously preserved—the very hand of Providence visible in his escape!—Would you slay him?—deliberately, coldly, slay him? No, no, I can’t—I won’t believe it. You are brave!—the brave are not assassins; and this would be an act of butchery! You would not sanction it. Did I conceive it possible that you would, by Heaven, the worst remembrance of my life would be, to think that you and I had ever fought side by side, and hand and heart together!”
The Spaniard coloured; but a sarcastic smile was the only reply he vouchsafed.
“I am too warm, Don Juan; like that of your own land, Irish blood is hot. Forgive me if I have offended you.” A gracious smile from the Empeeinado was returned, and conveyed a gracious pardon. “Now let me ask a favour: make me in gratitude your debtor; I have a claim on you. From the surprise, three nights ago, I risked nothing but captivity; by the French I should have been honourably respected; and had I determined on escape, a fitter time and better opportunity would have been readily found to attempt it. With you circumstances were different, nay, desperate. With you ‘twas but a choice of deaths—the sword or halter the alternative—while I had only to remain quiet, and not a hair of my head would have suffered injury. Did I fail you then?—Did my foster brother? No; we perilled all, fought by your side, and hewed out a path by which you escaped a death more certain, even than that which now awaits this unfortunate gentleman.”