assembled, who occupied the plaza and all the adjacent streets, and received him with loud cries of “Death to the Empecinado! Muera el ladron y mal Cristiano!” The armed men whom he had left in the town-house fired several shots at him from the windows, but nobody dared to lay hands upon him, as he marched slowly and steadily through the crowd, trabuco in hand, and casting glances on either side that made those upon whom they fell shrink involuntarily backwards.

On the low roof of one of the houses of the plaza, that formed the angle of the Calle de la Cruz, or street of the cross, old Gutierrez had taken his station.  With the fire of insanity in his bloodshot eyes, and a grin of exultation upon his wasted features, he witnessed the persecution of the Empecinado, and while his ears drank in the yells and hootings of the multitude, he added his shrill cracked voice to the uproar.  When the shots were fired from the town-hall, he bounded and capered upon the platform, clapping his meagre fingers together in ecstasy; but as the Empecinado got further from the house, and the firing was discontinued, an expression of anxiety replaced the look of triumph that had lighted up the old maniac’s face.  Diez still moved on unhurt, and was now within a few paces of the house on which Gutierrez had perched himself.  The old man’s uneasiness increased.  “Va a escapar!” muttered he to himself; “they will let him escape.  Oh, if I had a gun, my Pedrillo would soon be avenged!”

The Empecinado was passing under the house.  A sudden thought struck Gutierrez.  Stamping with his foot, he broke two or three of the tiles on which he was standing, and snatching up a large heavy fragment, he leaned over the edge of the roof to get a full view of the Empecinado, who was at that moment leaving the plaza and entering the Calle de la Cruz.  In five seconds more he would be out of sight.  As it was, it was only by leaning very far forward that Gutierrez could see him, walking calmly along, and keeping at bay the angry but cowardly mob that yelped at his heels, like a parcel of village curs pursuing a bloodhound, whose look alone prevents their too near approach.

Throwing his left arm round a chimney, the old man swung himself forward, and with all the force that he possessed, hurled the tile at the object of his hate.  The missile struck the Empecinado upon the temple, and he fell, stunned and bleeding, to the ground.

“Viva!” screamed Gutierrez; but a cry of agony followed the shout of exultation.  The chimney by which the old man supported himself was loose and crumbling, and totally unfit to bear his weight as he hung on by it, and leaned forward to gloat over his vengeance.  It tottered for a moment, and then fell with a crash into the street.  The height was not great, but the pavement was sharp and uneven; the old man pitched upon his head, and when lifted up was already a corpse.