“They all laughed, holding their sides, except the sergeant, who was gloomy and morose.  He was afraid the prisoners would rise and break out—­which would have been a bad example.  But there was no fear of that, and I stood myself before the window with my drawn sword.  When sufficiently tamed by the strength of Gaspar Ruiz they came up one by one, stretching their necks and presenting their lips to the edge of the bucket which the strong man tilted towards them from his knees with an extraordinary air of charity, gentleness, and compassion.  That benevolent appearance was of course the effect of his care in not spilling the water and of his attitude as he sat on the sill; for, if a man lingered with his lips glued to the rim of the bucket after Gaspar Ruiz had said ‘You have had enough,’ there would be no tenderness or mercy in the shove of the foot which would send him groaning and doubled up far into the interior of the prison, where he would knock down two or three others before he fell himself.  They came up to him again and again; it looked as if they meant to drink the well dry before going to their death; but the soldiers were so amused by Gaspar Ruiz’s systematic proceedings that they carried the water up to the window cheerfully.

“When the adjutant came out after his siesta there was some trouble over this affair, I can assure you.  And the worst of it was that the general whom we expected never came to the castle that day.”

The guests of General Santierra unanimously expressed their regret that the man of such strength and patience had not been saved.

“He was not saved by my interference,” said the General.  “The prisoners were led to execution half an hour before sunset.  Gaspar Ruiz, contrary to the sergeant’s apprehensions, gave no trouble.  There was no necessity to get a cavalry man with a lasso in order to subdue him, as if he were a wild bull of the campo.  I believe he marched out with his arms free amongst the others who were bound.  I did not see.  I was not there.  I had been put under arrest for interfering with the prisoner’s guard.  About dusk, sitting dismally in my quarters, I heard three volleys fired, and thought that I should never hear of Gaspar Ruiz again.  He fell with the others.  But we were to hear of him nevertheless, though the sergeant boasted that as he lay on his face expiring or dead in the heap of the slain, he had slashed his neck with a sword.  He had done this, he said, to make sure of ridding the world of a dangerous traitor.

“I confess to you, senores, that I thought of that strong man with a sort of gratitude, and with some admiration.  He had used his strength honourably.  There dwelt, then, in his soul no fierceness corresponding to the vigour of his body.”

V

Gaspar Ruiz, who could with ease bend apart the heavy iron bars of the prison, was led out with others to summary execution.  “Every bullet has its billet,” runs the proverb.  All the merit of proverbs consists in the concise and picturesque expression.  In the surprise of our minds is found their persuasiveness.  In other words, we are struck and convinced by the shock.