The doom was pronounced; the hand of the executioner—
the hand of his most bitter enemy, Juan
de Silva—was laid upon the shoulder of the victim;
but he refused to yield his faith to his own fears. He

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still hoped against conviction—still shrunk from a
belief in that punishment which, to the timid and dependent
nature, such as his, seemed to involve terrors
much more extreme than any threatened form of death.
But when he at last yielded to the conviction which
had long been entertained by all around—unless, perhaps,
by the woman, his supposed associate in crime—
then the whole strength of his soul, feeble in its
best moments, seemed to give way on the instant.
Every show of manhood was forgotten. There was
no pride to keep up appearances; no struggle to
maintain a decent show of fortitude and firmness;
but the miserable culprit sank down into the most
lamentable imbecility, to the shame of all around him.

“Mercy! mercy! For the sake of the Blessed
Virgin, have mercy upon me, Don Velasquez,” he
shrieked rather than pleaded, when the determined
aspects of the men appointed to convey him to the
boat, and the violent grasp of Juan upon his shoulder,
silenced all doubts as to the real intentions of his
tyrant to carry out his sentence, in full, as it had been
delivered. The hard-souled sailors, as much in scorn
as in pity, recoiled from the piercing feminine entreaty
of the victim, and left him free for the moment, as if
in doubt whether Velasquez might not yield to the
supplications which were urged with such a humiliating
disregard to manhood. Falling upon his knees,
he crawled toward the spot where sat the arbiter of
his fate, glowing in the enjoyment of that bitter-sweet
morsel of revenge which is so grateful to the malignant
nature. In his eyes—had those of the victim not

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been blinded by his own tears—had he not been too
base to venture to accompany his entreaties by a resolute
look upon the face of him upon whose word his
fate rested—he might have seen how hopeless were
all his pleadings. But he saw nothing—as he crawled
along the deck to the feet of the tyrant—but the terrible
danger which he was anxious to escape. Could
he have seen the inexpressible scorn which dilated the
nostrils and curled the lips of the woman—could he
have heard her bitter and only half-suppressed accents
of loathing—muttered between her gnashing teeth!
But they could not have changed his nature!

“Can he not die! Can he not die! Anything
but this! And yet,” she continued—herself unconscious
that she spoke—“yet how should it be that
one who had not the soul to slay his enemy, in the
moment when all that made life precious lay in the
blow—how should it be that he should aim the weapon
at his own bloodless heart, though to escape this
most loathsome tyranny.”

“Beware!” was the single word whispered close
beside her ear, from the lips of Juan de Silva. “Beware!
lest a worst fate befall thee even than his!
Wouldst thou peril life for such a reptile!”

She was silent at the suggestion. Not that she
had any fears of death; but, just then, her quick
thought and resolute spirit suddenly conceived its own
method for escape and vengeance. Other emotions
than those of scorn filled her bosom, as the whisper
of Juan, like the hissing of a hateful serpent, filled
her ears; and in their sudden consciousness, she

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trembled lest her feeling should declare itself aloud, in
spite of the resolute will which she invoked to curb
and keep it in. The emotion which her lips did not
declare, was conspicuous for the instant on her countenance,
and remained unseen only in consequence of
the absorbing nature of the event in progress at the
feet of Velasquez. To this spot the abject culprit
had continued to crawl, unrestrained by the stern
command of his tyrant not to approach him. To his
knees he clung, though the latter strove to shake him
off, and to spurn him away with the members which
were too heavily swathed and bandaged to suffer him
to use them with any efficiency for such a purpose.
His pleadings, which were of a sort to move loathing
rather than pity, produced no feeling of either kind
in the breast of Velasquez. They provoked his merriment
rather. He grinned as he beheld the writhings
of the wretched creature before him. He had a sorry
jest for all his contortions. Verily, the Spanish adventurers
of that day in America, were a terrible
banditti! Of these, Velasquez was a proper specimen.
When his victim appealed to him for the sake of his
widowed mother at Segovia, he answered—

“I shall tell her of thy possessions, Lopez; she
shall hear of thy elevation. She was always a woman
of rare ambition. Did I not know her in her younger
days? Knowest thou not that she once disposed her
mantilla so that she might make a captive of me?
Had she done so, verily, it might have been mine own
son, for whom this Isle of Lovers hath been found. I
shall tell her of thy fortune, Lopez. She shall

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rejoice in thy principality; and it may be, will find her
way out to thee, seeking to share in the wealth of thy
dominions. Enough now—take him hence, I tell thee;—
Juan, son, wilt thou not see the prince bestowed
upon his empire! I begin to weary of this gratitude.”

Again the officers approached, and again they hesitated—
all but Juan—as the cries of the wretched
imbecile rang through the vessel. The sailors would
still have suffered him to urge his prayers for mercy;
but Juan had no such yielding nature, and he knew,
better than they, how profitless were all entreaties.
He had resolved, for his own purpose, that there
should be no relentings in the brutal spirit of Velasquez.
He left the side of Maria de Pacheco, at the
summons of his uncle, and with his own hand, grappled
the victim, while giving the word to the sailors
chosen to assist him. But, rising to his feet, Lopez
dashed away from the grasp of his assailant, and
once more rushed in supplication to Velasquez. His
terrors gave him wonderful strength, and a faculty of
speech scarcely less wonderful. He was positively
eloquent. Never was prayer for mercy more passionate
or more pregnant with the best argument in behalf
of mercy. They touched all hearts but the two
alone which it had been of any avail to move. These
were immovable. Again were his entreaties answered
by scurrile jest, mocking suggestion, and derisive
laughter. The taste for the sports of the tauridor who
tortures the bull to madness before he bestows the
coup de grace, could alone afford any likeness to the
sort of pleasure which this sea-despot enjoyed in the

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fruitless agonies of his victim. It was in a sort of
defiance, produced by very shame and despair, that
the culprit rose at length to his feet, and, folding his
arms upon his breast, submitted to his fate, from which
it was evident that no degree of humiliation could
possibly suffice to save him. A smile softened the
features of Maria de Pacheco.

“It is well!” she murmured to herself. “A little
sooner and the shame would have been spared to both!”

The victim seemed to hear her accents, though not
to understand them. He turned a timid glance toward
her, but her eye no longer sought his own. She
was conscious that other eyes were then keenly fixed
on both.

The boat was declared to be in readiness. The
month's store of provisions, accorded by Velasquez,
were thrown into her;—the spear and the crossbow followed;
and the hands of the seamen, appointed to convey
“the Maroon,” were fastened firmly on his shoulder.
He was now subdued to submission, if not reconciled
to his fate. He no longer opposed himself
to their efforts, and though he still spoke the language
of entreaty, it was no longer addressed to his tyrant.

“Oh! my countrymen—Antonio, Pedro, it is you
who do me thus; it is you, my countrymen, who help
to give me up to such a dreadful doom!”

Such was the touching appeal, made to ancient
comrades, which the poor wretch uttered at the parting
moment. They looked downward in silence, but
did not relax their hold upon him.

“And I am to perish on that desolate island;

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and the people of my own land leave me to this solitude!
They hear the voice of my prayer, and shut
their ears against it! I am never more to hear human
speech—never more to look upon Christian face—nor
call any man brother or friend. Oh! Spaniards,
brothers, friends, countrymen!—will you doom me
thus—will you desert me thus to the solitude of the
sea, which is worset han any death? Christians! help
me—speak for me—save me!”

There was a moisture in the eyes of the weather-beaten
seamen who stood around him. At this moment
the woman advanced suddenly and stood before
Velasquez. Juan beheld her purpose in her countenance,
and whispered as she passed him, “Beware!”
She heard, but did not heed the warning.

“Velasquez!”—she spoke with firmness—“surely,
you have carried this jest far enough. You cannot
mean really to devote this wretched man to this place
of desolation?”

“Jest!” exclaimed the other; “jest, call you it?
By my faith, but you have very merrily described a very
serious ceremonial. Yet, if there be a jest designed
at all, I see that it hath been omitted. Ho, Juan,
bring forth the guitar of our prince. See you that
it be slung about the neck of Don Lopez. It hath a
band of crimson—truly the fitting collar for a sovereign.
It will help him to remember his old songs
when in the enjoyment of his new seigniory. He
shall have his ditty and jest together. It were cruel,
lady mine, to deprive him of that which hath been so
much his nightly solace! Eh! what sayest thou?”

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