“ ‘Hardly that, Senor General.’
“ ‘Have him placed on one side.’
“Two soldiers advanced and between them the condemned rebel walked to the spot indicated.
The officer in command of the firing squad on a nod from the general gave an order, there was a ragged report, and the four men fell.
They fell strangely, not together, but one after the other, with movements that were almost grotesque, as though they were puppets in a toy theatre.
The officer went up to them and into one who was still alive emptied two chambers of his revolver.
Our friend finished his cigarette and threw away the stub.
“There was a little stir at the gateway.
A woman came into the patio, with quick steps, and then, her hand on her heart, stopped suddenly.
She gave a cry and with outstretched arms ran forward.
“ ‘Caramba,’ said the general.
“She was in black, with a veil over her hair, and her face was dead white.
She was hardly more than a girl, a slim creature, with little regular features and enormous eyes.
But they were distraught with anguish.
Her loveliness was such that as she ran, her mouth slightly open and the agony of her face beautiful, a gasp of surprise was wrung from those indifferent soldiers who looked at her.
“The rebel advanced a step or two to meet her.
She flung herself into his arms and with a hoarse cry of passion: alma de mi corazon, soul of my heart, he pressed his lips to hers.
And at the same moment he drew a knife from his ragged shirt—I haven’t a notion how he had managed to retain possession of it—and stabbed her in the neck.
The blood spurted from the cut vein and dyed his shirt.
Then he flung his arms round her and once more pressed his lips to hers.
“It happened so quickly that many didn’t know what had occurred, but from the others burst a cry of horror; they sprang forward and seized him. They loosened his grasp and the girl would have fallen if the A.D.C. hadn’t caught her.
She was unconscious.
They laid her on the ground and with dismay on their faces stood round watching her.
The rebel knew where he was striking and it was impossible to staunch the blood.
In a moment the A.D.C. who had been kneeling by her side rose.
“ ‘She’s dead,’ he whispered.
“The rebel crossed himself.
“ ‘Why did you do it?’ asked the general.
“ ‘I loved her.’
“A sort of sigh passed through those men crowded together and they looked with strange faces at the murderer.
The general stared at him for a while in silence.
“ ‘It was a noble gesture,’ he said at last.
‘I cannot execute this man.
Take my car and have him led to the frontier.
Senor, I offer you the homage which is due from one brave man to another.’
“A murmur of approbation broke from those who listened.
The A.D.C. tapped the rebel on the shoulder, and between the two soldiers without a word he marched to the waiting car."
My friend stopped and for a little I was silent.
I must explain that he was a Guatemaltecan and spoke to me in Spanish.
I have translated what he told me as well as I could, but I have made no attempt to tone down his rather high-flown language.
To tell the truth I think it suits the story.
“But how then did he get the scar?” I asked at length.
“Oh, that was due to a bottle that burst when he was opening it.
A bottle of ginger ale."
“I never liked it,” said I.