ted gang staggered out, leaving the prisoner to
reflect upon this promised "spectacle."

He did reflect upon it. That he was to be made a spectacle he
understood well enough. He had no hopes of mercy, either from civil or
military judges. His death was to be the spectacle. All night long his
soul was tortured with painful thoughts, not of himself, but about those
far dearer to him than his own life.

Morning glanced through the narrow loophole of his gloomy cell. Nothing
else--nought to eat, to drink--no word of consolation--no kind look from
his ruffian gaolers. No friend to make inquiry about him--no sign that
a single heart on earth cared for him.

Midday arrived. He was taken, or rather dragged, from his prison.
Troops formed around, and carried him off. Where was he going? To
execution?

His eyes were free. He saw himself taken to the town, and through the
Plaza. There was an unusual concourse of people. The square was nearly
filled, and the azoteas that commanded a view of it. All the
inhabitants of the settlement seemed to be present in the town. There
were haciendados, rancheros, miners, and all. Why? Some grand event
must have brought them together. They had the air of people who
expected to witness an unusual scene. Perhaps the "spectacle" promised
by Roblado! But what could that be? Did they intend to torture him in
presence of the multitude? Such was not improbable.

The crowd jeered him as he passed. He was carried through their midst,
and thrust into the Calabozo.

A rude _banqueta_ along one side of his cell offered a resting-place.
On this the wretched man sank down into a lying posture. The fastenings
on his arms and legs would not allow him to sit upright.

He was left alone. The soldiers who had conducted him went out, turning
the key behind them. Their voices and the clink of their scabbards told
him that some of them still remained by the door. Two of them had been
left there as sentinels. The others sauntered off, and mingled with the
crowd of civilians that filled the Plaza.

Carlos lay for some minutes without motion--almost without thought. His
soul was overwhelmed with misery. For the first time in his life he
felt himself yielding to despair.

The feeling was evanescent; and once more he began to reflect--not to
hope--no! Hope, they say dies but with life: but that is a paradox. He
still lived, but hope had died. Hope of escape there was none. He was