hich he could not fail to deduce
the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise,
but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be
followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be
more properly designated, a military murder.

The victims devoted are seen near the edge of the open ground--its lower
edge regarding the direction of the stream. They are in erect attitude,
each with his back to the trunk of a tree, to which with raw-hide ropes
they are securely lashed. No need telling who they are. The reader
knows them to be the prisoners lately lying prostrate near the same
place.

In their front, and scarce ten paces distant, the lancers are drawn up
in line and single file. There are ten of them, the tenth a little
retired to the right, showing chevrons on his sleeve. He is the
sergeant in immediate command of the firing party. Farther rearward,
and close by the conical tent, and two in the uniform of officers, Uraga
and his adjutant. The former is himself about to pronounce the word of
command, the relentless expression upon his face, blent with a grim
smile that overspreads it, leading to believe that the act of diabolical
cruelty gives him gratification. Above, upon the cliff's brow, the
black vultures also show signs of satisfaction. With necks craned and
awry, the better to look below, they see preparations which instinct or
experience has taught them to understand. Blood is about to be spilled;
there will be flesh to afford them a feast.

There is now perfect silence, after a scene which preceded; once more
Uraga having made overtures to Miranda, with promise of life under the
same scandalous conditions; as before, to receive the response, firmly
spoken,--

"No--never!"

The patriot soldier prefers death to dishonour.

His choice taken, he quails not. Tied to the trunk of the tree, he
stands facing his executioners without show of fear. If his cheeks be
blanched, and his bosom throbbing with tumultuous emotion, 'tis not at
sight of the firing party, or the guns held loaded in their hands. Far
other are his fears, none of them for himself, but all for his dear
sister--Adela. No need to dwell upon or describe them. They may be
imagined.

And Don Prospero, brave and defiant too. He stands backed by the tree,
his eyes showing calm courage, his long silvered beard touching his
breast, not drooping or despairingly, but like one res