II

Gaspar Ruiz, condemned to death as a deserter, was not thinking either of his native place or of his parents, to whom he had been a good son on account of the mildness of his character and the great strength of his limbs.  The practical advantage of this last was made still more valuable to his father by his obedient disposition.  Gaspar Ruiz had an acquiescent soul.

But it was stirred now to a sort of dim revolt by his dislike to die the death of a traitor.  He was not a traitor.  He said again to the sergeant:  “You know I did not desert, Estaban.  You know I remained behind amongst the trees with three others to keep the enemy back while the detachment was running away!”

Lieutenant Santierra, little more than a boy at the time, and unused as yet to the sanguinary imbecilities of a state of war, had lingered near by, as if fascinated by the sight of these men who were to be shot presently—­“for an example”—­as the Commandante had said.

The sergeant, without deigning to look at the prisoner, addressed himself to the young officer with a superior smile.

“Ten men would not have been enough to make him a prisoner, mi teniente.  Moreover, the other three rejoined the detachment after dark.  Why should he, unwounded and the strongest of them all, have failed to do so?”

“My strength is as nothing against a mounted man with a lasso,” Gaspar Ruiz protested, eagerly.  “He dragged me behind his horse for half a mile.”

At this excellent reason the sergeant only laughed contemptuously.  The young officer hurried away after the Commandante.

Presently the adjutant of the castle came by.  He was a truculent, raw-boned man in a ragged uniform.  His spluttering voice issued out of a flat yellow face.  The sergeant learned from him that the condemned men would not be shot till sunset.  He begged then to know what he was to do with them meantime.

The adjutant looked savagely round the courtyard and, pointing to the door of a small dungeon-like guardroom, receiving light and air through one heavily barred window, said:  “Drive the scoundrels in there.”

The sergeant, tightening his grip upon the stick he carried in virtue of his rank, executed this order with alacrity and zeal.  He hit Gaspar Ruiz, whose movements were slow, over his head and shoulders.  Gaspar Ruiz stood still for a moment under the shower of blows, biting his lip thoughtfully as if absorbed by a perplexing mental process—­then followed the others without haste.  The door was locked, and the adjutant carried off the key.