Chapter 2

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 guard-room, 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.

By noon the heat of that low vaulted place crammed to suffocation had
become unbearable. The prisoners crowded towards