Chapter 2 - Page 2

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