By noon the heat of that vaulted place crammed to suffocation had become unbearable.  The prisoners crowded towards the window, begging their guards for a drop of water; but the soldiers remained lying in indolent attitudes wherever there was a little shade under a wall, while the sentry sat with his back against the door smoking a cigarette, and raising his eyebrows philosophically from time to time.  Gaspar Ruiz had pushed his way to the window with irresistible force.  His capacious chest needed more air than the others; his big face, resting with its chin on the ledge, pressed close to the bars, seemed to support the other faces crowding up for breath.  From moaned entreaties they had passed to desperate cries, and the tumultuous howling of those thirsty men obliged a young officer who was just then crossing the courtyard to shout in order to make himself heard.

“Why don’t you give some water to these prisoners?”

The sergeant, with an air of surprised innocence, excused himself by the remark that all those men were condemned to die in a very few hours.

Lieutenant Santierra stamped his foot.  “They are condemned to death, not to torture,” he shouted.  “Give them some water at once.”

Impressed by this appearance of anger, the soldiers bestirred themselves, and the sentry, snatching up his musket, stood to attention.

But when a couple of buckets were found and filled from the well, it was discovered that they could not be passed through the bars, which were set too close.  At the prospect of quenching their thirst, the shrieks of those trampled down in the struggle to get near the opening became very heartrending.  But when the soldiers who had lifted the buckets towards the window put them to the ground again helplessly, the yell of disappointment was still more terrible.

The soldiers of the army of Independence were not equipped with canteens.  A small tin cup was found, but its approach to the opening caused such a commotion, such yells of rage and pain in the vague mass of limbs behind the straining faces at the window, that Lieutenant Santierra cried out hurriedly, “No, no—­you must open the door, sergeant.”

The sergeant, shrugging his shoulders, explained that he had no right to open the door even if he had had the key.  But he had not the key.  The adjutant of the garrison kept the key.  Those men were giving much unnecessary trouble, since they had to die at sunset in any case.  Why they had not been shot at once early in the morning he could not understand.

Lieutenant Santierra kept his back studiously to the window.  It was at his earnest solicitations that the Commandante had delayed the execution.  This favour had been granted to him in consideration of his distinguished family and of his father’s high position amongst the chiefs of the Republican party.  Lieutenant Santierra believed that the General commanding would visit the fort some time in