“I can’t, for the life of me, I can’t!”

“Why, my good fellow, come to think of it, you should not complain, of all others, since it gives you promotion and the command of our brave boys.”

A look of deep reproach was the only answer he received to this remark.

“Forgive me, Ferdinand, forgive me, I did but jest,” he continued, quickly, as he again grasped the hand of his comrade between his own.

“Say no more, Lorenzo.  Is there aught I can do for you before we march?”

“Nothing.”

“No little boon-no service you would like to trust to a friend and comrade?”

“My papers are all arranged and addressed to you, with directions how I should like to have them disposed of.  There is nothing else, Ferdinand.”

“It will be my melancholy pleasure to follow your wishes implicitly,” was the reply.

“Thank you, Ferdinand.”

“Is that all?”

“All.”

“Then we must at once away.”

“One moment-stay, Ferdinand; tell my poor boys who act the executioners, those of the first file, to fire low-at my heart, Ferdinand!  You will remember?”

“Alas! yes,” said his comrade, turning suddenly away from the prisoner.

“And tell them, Ferdinand, that I most heartily and sincerely forgive them for the part they are called upon to play in this day’s drama.”

“I will-I will.”

“That is all.  I have no other request, and am prepared now to follow you,” he added, with a calm and resigned expression of countenance.

The drum beat-the file opened-the prisoner took his position, and the detachment of men whom he had so often commanded amid the carnage of battle and the roar of cannon, now guarded him towards the place of his execution.

Lorenzo Bezan had but a little way to march; but still a blush suffused his face as he passed, thus humiliated, through the public Plaza, where he had so often paraded his company before.  All eyes were low bent upon him, from the humblest to the highest, for he was well known, and his fate had created much remark among all.  He was marched quietly to the rear of the barracks, and as the company filed by the guard house, to the long open space on the city side, just opposite Moro Castle, he distinctly heard a voice from one of the windows say: 

“God bless and help you, Captain Bezan!”

He turned partially round to see the speaker, but no one was visible.  He was sure it was Ruez’s voice, and wondering why he did not come forward to meet his eye, he marched on to the plain where the entire division of General Harero’s command was drawn up to witness the scene.  It is difficult to conceive, and much more so to describe, such an impressive sight as presented itself at this moment to the spectator.  There was so much mockery in the brilliant uniforms, flaunting plumes and gilded accoutrements of the soldiery, when contrasted with the purpose of the scene, that one could hardly contemplate the sight even for a moment with ordinary composure.