onfusion of his
senses, Don Rafael had not observed the object which had frightened his
horse. It was a dead body lying upon the ground in front of the
gateway. More horrible still, it was a body wanting the head!

At this frightful spectacle a cry broke from the lips of the officer--a
cry of fearful import. Rage, despair, all the furious passions that may
wring the heart of man, were expressed in that cry--to which echo was
the only answer. He had arrived too late. All was over. The body was
that of his father!

He needed not to alight and examine it, in order to be convinced of this
terrible fact. On a level with his horse's head an object appeared
hanging against one of the leaves of the great door. It was a head--the
head that had belonged to the corpse. It was hanging from the latch,
suspended by the hair.

Despite the repugnance of his horse to advance, Don Rafael drove the
spur into his flank; and forced him forward until he was himself near
enough to examine the fearful object. With flashing eyes and swelling
veins, he gazed upon the gory face. The features were not so much
disfigured, as to hinder him from identifying them. They were the
features of his father!

The truth was clear. The Spaniard had been the victim of the
insurgents, who had respected neither his liberal political sentiments,
nor his inoffensive old age. The authors of the crime had even boasted
of it. On the gate below were written two names, _Arroyo_--_Antonio
Valdez_.

The officer read them aloud, but with a choking utterance.

For a moment his head fell pensively forward upon his breast. Then on a
sudden he raised it again--as if in obedience to a secret resolve--
saying as he did so, in a voice husky with emotion--

"Where shall I find the fiends? Where? No matter!--find them I shall.
Night or day, no rest for me--no rest for them, till I have hung both
their heads in the place of this one!"

"How now," he continued after a pause, "how can I combat in a cause like
this? Can a son fight under the same flag with the assassins of his
father? Never!"

"For Spain, then!" he cried out, after another short moment of silence.
"For Spain shall my sword be drawn!" And raising his voice into a
louder tone, he pronounced with furious emphasis--

"_Viva Espana! Mueran a los bandidos_!" (Spain for ever! Death to the
brigands!)

Saying this, the dragoon dismounted from his horse, and knelt
reverentially in front of