I had witnessed enough of guerilla life to render it thoroughly disgusting. War at best is bad; but “war to the knife” is only tolerable for savages. All the romance of partida daring had passed away. I had seen it in its naked light, and found its real character—a ruthless, reckless disregard to every feeling which binds mankind by a common tie—by turns suffering without complaint, and inflicting without compunction. Such were my impressions as I slowly rode along the village street; and had they needed any confirmation, the scene reserved for me would have been quite enough.
On the huge beech tree I had already remarked in front of the house of the chief magistrate, three human bodies were suspended. The Empecinado’s passing observation, and El Manco’s sarcastic address while dooming the unhappy offenders, came back vividly to my recollection. The sentence had indeed been executed to the very letter, and alcade, postmaster, and muleteer, were hanging precisely as the “maimed one” had decreed it.
The worst feature of the savage picture remained—six wretched orphans who had witnessed the expiring agonies of their father were still screaming from the windows from which they had seen him die, and from fear, insensibility, or both, their immediate neighbours dared not, or did not, offer the slightest mark of sympathy under a berewement that would have touched all but savage hearts. The fosterer turned pale; the Frenchman shuddered; the Empecinado regarded the dead men with a marble look.
“El Manco,” observed the Cura with a smile, “Jack Hangman has done thy bidding, and the alcade overtops his friends.”
“Ay,” returned the ‘maimed one;’ “this ever be the fate of traitors! Would that every oak in Spain bore such acorns as yonder beech tree!”
I was sick, nauseated, disgusted. Death—death in every shape! and from the bottom of my heart, I blessed God that my acquaintance with my excellent friends was to determine so speedily. Until we cleared the village I preserved an unbroken silence; and when Juan Diez pointed to a place where our respective roads branched off at the distance of a furlong, my bosom felt as if it were lightened of a load, and, as Doctor Pangloss says, “I breathed again.”
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE GUERILLA’S GIFT.
Bring forth the horse!—the horse was brought;