fter all, only insolence. He had need to keep
guard on his importance; he did not wish to hear the pounding of his
heart. Yet his muscles twitched unbecomingly, which jerked his mouth,
and sometimes his head.

Maximilian stepped forward and addressed them. To each he gave a gold
piece bearing his effigy. It was his last expenditure in that coin. He
requested them earnestly, gently, to aim at his body, not at his head.
He was thinking of his mother. He would not have her see him with
mangled features. Then with a final reassuring word, he turned back to
the wall.

They were going to place him between the other two, but with a smile and
shake of the head, he would not have it so. His last act was for
precedence. Affectionately he drew Miramon to the place of honor, so
that Mejia was on the right, and himself on the left.

Then the _fiscal_ of the Republic appeared, and read the military
law. For any who should ask the lives of the condemned, death was
prescribed. But if there was anything the condemned themselves wished to
say....

Maximilian removed his hat. "Mexicans," he said, "may my blood be the
last to be spilled for this country's welfare. Long live Independence!
Long live Mexico!"

He spoke the words calmly, gravely, and having concluded, he carefully
adjusted a large handkerchief, so that his beard might not be burned by
the powder. Then he crossed his arms on his breast, and gazed steadily
into the barrels of the leveled muskets, waiting.

A wave of motion, of tendons stiffening, passed along the thick wall of
flesh. Against it the tide without swelled higher, stronger. Tension
strained upward to the supreme crash. The quiet of a multitude is pain.

But the other two Imperialists had not spoken yet. Mejia shook his head
passionately. He saw only his young wife with her babe, panting,
stumbling through the dust. He held a crucifix, and would not take it
from his lips. Miramon, however, raised his voice to protest against the
charge of treason. Of that crime he died innocent. But he pardoned, as
he hoped for pardon. Then he cried, "Long live Mexico! Long live the
Emperor!"

Maximilian started. These were the words that he thought he should like
to hear. But now they grated. They recalled the mistake he had lived,
the anachronism of his life. They were scorpions. They stung like the
needle in an ulcer. He turned sharply, in tearful reproach. But a sword
flashed, the volley came, and the three men fell, as