It was very plain to officers and men that there had been foul play somewhere, and so excited had the division become by this time, that the officers began to look seriously at each other, fearing an immediate outbreak and disregard of discipline.  It was a time to try the troops, if one had ever occurred.  They would have stood firm and have received an enemy’s fire without wavering; but there seemed some cold-blooded rascality here, in the arriving of the reprieve after the twelve men had fired, even though they did so ineffectually.

Quick, stern orders were quickly passed from line to line, the division was wheeled into column, the drums beat a quick march, and the whole column passed up the Calle del Iganasio towards the front of the main barracks, where, lest the symptoms, already referred to, should ripen into something more serious still, orders were issued to keep the division still under arms.  In the meantime, Captain Lorenzo Bezan, still as calm as though nought had occurred, was marched back to his cell in the prison, to hear the conditions upon which the reprieve, as dictated by Tacon, was granted.  As he passed the guard house again, on his return, he heard his name called as he had heard it when he marched with the guard: 

“God bless you, Captain Bezan!”

“Strange,” thought the prisoner-he knew it for Ruez Gonzales’s voice at once; “where can that boy be secreted?” He mused for a second of time.  This was the portion of the guard room where the officer on duty had loaded the guns for his execution, and from here they had been taken and passed into the hands of the men.  It did not require much penetration on the part of the reprieved soldier to understand now the reason why these twelve men had missed their aim!

Had they exercised the skill of Kentucky sharp-shooters they could have done no harm; blank cartridges don’t kill.  But how unexpected, how miraculous it appeared, how strange the sensations of the young officer, after that loud sounding discharge, to find himself standing thus unharmed,—­no wound, no bullet whistling by his ears, the dead, sluggish smoke alone enveloping his person for a moment, and then, as it swept away seaward, the shout of the astonished division rang upon his senses.  He felt that all eyes were upon him, and adamant itself could not have remained firmer than did he.  Few men would have possessed sufficient self-control to bear themselves thus; but he was a soldier, and had often dared the bullet of the enemy.  He was familiar with the whistling of bullets, and other sounds that carry on their wings the swift-borne messengers of death.  Besides this, there was an indifference as to life, existing in his bosom at that moment, that led him to experience a degree of apathy that it would be difficult for us to describe, or for the reader to realize.  He felt as he did when he exclaimed, in his lonely cell in prison, as he was left for the last time by her he so loved—­“Welcome, welcome, death!  I would that thou wert here already!”