of that."

Uraga steps to the entrance of the tent, and, looking forth, takes a
survey of the camp-ground. His eyes seek the spot occupied by the
prisoners. They are both again together, under the same tree where
first placed, a sentry keeping guard over them. The tree is a
cottonwood, with smooth stem and large limbs extending horizontally.
Another is near, so similar as to seem a twin; both being a little out
from the thick timber, which forms a dark background behind them.

After regarding them a moment, scanning them as a lumberman would a log
intended for a saw-mill, Uraga directs.

"Raise the prisoners upright, and tie one to each of those two trees.
Set their backs to the trunk. They've both been army men, and we won't
disgrace the cloth by shooting them from behind. That's grace enough
for rebels."

The sergeant, saluting, is again about to go, only staying to catch some
final words of direction. They are--

"In ten minutes I shall expect you to have everything ready. When
you've got the stage set I shall myself appear upon it as an actor--the
Star of this pretty play!"

And with a hoarse laugh at his horrid jest, the ruffian retires within
his tent.

CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

THE HAND OF GOD.

The sun is descending towards the crest of the Cordillera, his rays
becoming encrimsoned as twilight approaches. They fall like streams of
blood between the bluffs enclosing the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo,
their tint in unison with a tragedy there about to be enacted--in itself
strangely out of correspondence with the soft, tranquil scene.

The stage is the encampment of Uraga and his detachment of lancers, now
set for the terrible spectacle soon to take place.

The two tents are still standing as pitched, several paces apart. At
the entrance of the square one, with its flap drawn close and tied, a
soldier keeps sentry; that of conical shape being unguarded.

Rearward, by the wood edge, are three horses and a mule, all four under
saddle, with bridles on; these attached to the branches of a tree.
There is no providence in this, but rather neglect. Since the purpose
for which they were caparisoned has proved abortive, they remain so only
from having been forgotten.

The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead,
are browsing at the length of their lariats.

It is in the positions and attitudes of the men that a spectator might
read preparation; and of a kind from w