“They tell me, my son, that I am to perform the last offices of religion for the dying,” said Padre Diogo.
“For me, Padre, for me!” exclaimed the corregidor in a voice of agony. “Alas! it is cruel mockery. They have murdered my wife and children, my guests and servants—all, all are dead! and now they will murder me.”
“I will plead for you; I will try to save your life,” said the padre. “But they cannot have been so cruel—they cannot have murdered those innocents!”
“Alas! I speak true. Before my eyes they slew all I love on earth, and they only preserved me to make me endure longer suffering,” said the wretched man.
“You are delaying to perform your duty,” cried a voice from among the crowd of Indians.
“Mercy, mercy, for him, my children!” ejaculated the padre.
“He showed us none,” answered a hundred voices in return. “Proceed, proceed, or he must die without shrift.”
The padre felt there was no hope; but he attempted to make another appeal. He was answered in the same strain.
“My son, you must prepare your soul for another world,” he whispered into the ear of the corregidor.
The unhappy man saw that indeed there was no hope for him, but still he clung to life. He dared not die. At that moment all his deeds of cruelty, all his tyranny, came crowding to his memory in a light they had never before worn. Of what use now was to him the wealth he had thus unjustly acquired? Oh! if men would at all times and seasons remember that they must one day die, and give an account of their deeds on earth, would it not restrain them from committing acts of injustice and wrong? The corregidor attempted to enumerate his misdeeds. They were too many for him to recollect.