ing, to die with my death. I was alone, a rough stranger in the land, and I was glad to be spared that extra pang which my comrade had to endure. Still, Tom, it was a bitter pill to swallow. Disguise it as we may, we all shrink from the black shadow. They neglected us in that jail, as usual in Mexico, and it was not till noon that a surly mulatto brought us a few beans fried in oil, and, what we valued more, a pitcher of water. He shook his woolly head and declined to answer any of my questions.
“An hour afterwards arrived a priest, though not, as I at first conjectured, on a bootless and tormenting errand of conversion. He was of a gentle disposition and good repute, had often been a guest at the table of Mr. Acworth, and had come to visit us at the request of his Protestant friend. Father Diego, a very different sort of ecclesiastic from our chaplain in the mountains, spoke to us with great sympathy and kindness, and bade us be of good cheer. Mr. Acworth, roused to unwonted energy, was using in our behalf his whole interest with the authorities. He had already had an interview with the corregidor and the alcalde, and had seen the Governor, Don Miguel Gomez. The latter was the man on whose breath hung our lives. He was, as we knew, of a stern nature, an honest fanatic, full of fiery zeal for his Church and faction; but Mr. Acworth, who stood high in his esteem, hoped to mollify his determination.
“This was the padre’s first visit. He came again in two hours’ time, and his words and looks were less cheerful than before. The Governor, he said ambiguously, was a hard man; but even rocks might be melted. Mr. Acworth had gone a third time to his residence, and this time his daughter had accompanied him. She was a dear friend to Manuella and Inez, the Governor’s two children, and she had gone to petition them to kneel with her at their fierce father’s feet, and to beg our pardon. ‘May the blessed St. Iago, St. George, and Our Lady of the Pillar, soften his hard heart!’ said the old padre, shuffling out of the cell, evidently ill at ease. He came again, but by that time the afternoon was far spent, and there was an ominous change in his benevolent wrinkled face; he was pale, and his hand was cold and tremulous as he took mine.
“‘My son,’ said he, ‘we must all die one day. What matter a few brief hours in the account of our allotted pilgrimage?’
“My eye met his. I read our fate at a glance.
“‘Is there no hope?’
“‘None!’ said the old man, almost sobbing. He went on to say how Jane Acworth and the Governor’s daughters had knelt in vain at the great man’s feet, had implored mercy for us in vain.
“‘They wept, they pleaded and prayed,’ said the padre. ‘Oh! it would have melted a heart of marble; but his must be harder than marble. Prepare, my poor children, to die. If my spiritual ministry can avail—’
“‘Father Diego, we thank you, but we must pray alone,’ returned I; ‘the sentence stands, then, for sunset?’
“‘For sunset! An old man’s blessing will do you no harm—take it.’ And he made the sign of the cross, and left the cell with drooping head and slow step. The great golden sun was going down fast. The mellowing rays fell slanting upon the bare wall. About one hour, as near as I could guess, was the span between us and eternity.
“A dreadful hour, brother, in which the bitterness of death was drained to the dregs. But my own state of mind was peaceful, compared to Arthur’s. He showed no unmanliness, no actual fear, but he was in a febrile condition painful to mark, his nerves were strung to an unnatural tension, and he suffered cruelly from the blow that robbed him of love, and hope, and life, so young. ‘Poor Jane, this will kill her!’ he said, several times over. Once he grasped my hand as I tried to comfort him, and said:
“‘Bless you, old friend. I know you don’t think me a coward for making such a fuss about the matter. It’s not death alone—you’ve seen me in danger before, haven’t you? But Jane—and all our fond hopes—these bloody Mexican butchers—it’s hard to bear!’
“Just before sunset I heard the tramp of steps, the clank of muskets on the stones without. They had come to fetch us. I whispered in Arthur’s ear as he lay moodily musing, and he sprang up, his irons rattling, and prepared for the last. The door opened, and a subaltern and ten soldiers appeared, with the gaoler and a smith.
“‘Knock off their irons,’ said the officer, lighting a cigar. ‘Stand at ease, men.’
“The fetters were removed; we were placed between two files, and the march began. At the gate of the prison a crowd waited. There was a murmur as we appeared.
“‘Mueran los malditos!’ cried a few voices; but most of the people showed some signs of pity, mingled with curiosity.
“‘Poor boys!—so young! I wonder if they have mothers at home to mourn them?’ said one woman, aloud.
“‘Forward,’ said the officer, drawing his sword. We moved on, surrounded by the guard. Every balcony of the great street, every window in the Prado, were full of life, of rustling fans and fluttering veils and scarfs, as the dark-eyed ladies of the city looked out at the show. The streets contained large groups of gazers. At one corner we saw Father Diego, and bowed to him, and the old priest lifted his feeble hands, and blessed us as we passed. We neared the great square of the Parade, where we could discern a gay squadron of mounted lancers, escorting a number of officers on horseback, in rich uniforms—the Governor and his staff. Besides these, a body of infantry was drawn up, and a great crowd thronged as close as the sentries allowed. We were now under the windows of Mr. Acworth’s mansion, when I saw Arthur, who had till then walked calm and tranquil at my side, start and change colour. I looked up. Could it be! Yes, in the balcony stood Jane Acworth, fresh and radiant in her beauty, with bright eyes and flushed cheeks, waving her handkerchief to us. Lake groaned, and hid his face between his hands.
