Civil Guards were passing with a sinister air to and fro in front of the door of the tribunal, threatening with the butts of their guns the daring boys who stood on tip-toe or raised each other up in order to look through the grates in the windows.  
The sala did not present that same joyful aspect as it did when the program for the festival was being discussed. It was gloomy and the silence was almost death-like. The Civil Guards and the cuaderilleros who were occupying the room scarcely spoke and the few words that they did pronounce were in a low tone. Around the table sat the directorcillo, two writers and some soldiers scribbling papers. The alferez walked from one side to the other, looking from time to time ferociously toward the door. Themistocles after the battle of Salamis could not have shown more pride at the Olympic games. Do?a Consolacion yawned in one corner of the room, and disclosed her black palate and her crooked teeth. Her cold and evil look was fixed on the door of the jail, covered with indecent pictures. Her husband, made amiable by the victory, had yielded to her request to be allowed to witness the interrogation and, perhaps, the tortures which were to follow. The hyena smelled the dead body, she licked her chops and was wearied at the delay in the punishment.
 
The gobernadorcillo’s chair, that large chair under the portrait of His Majesty, was empty and seemed destined for some other person.
 
At nearly nine o’clock, the curate, pale and with eyebrows knit, arrived.
 
“Well, you haven’t made any one wait!” said the alferez sarcastically to the friar. [236]
 
“I would have preferred not to be present,” replied Father Salví, in a low voice, without taking notice of the bitter tone.... “I am very nervous.”
 
“As no one came, I decided that, in order not to leave the chair empty, your presence.... You already know that the prisoners are to leave town this afternoon.”
 
“Young Ibarra and the teniente mayor?”
 
The alferez pointed toward the jail.
 
“Eight are in there,” said he. “Bruno died last night at midnight, but his declaration has been obtained.”
 
The curate saluted Do?a Consolacion, who responded with a yawn and an “aah!” The friar took the big chair under the picture of His Majesty.
 
“We can begin,” said he.
 
“Bring out the two who are in the stocks!” ordered the alferez in his most terrifying voice. And turning to the curate, he added, changing his tone:
 
“They are fastened in the stocks with two holes vacant!”
 
For those who are interested in instruments of torture, we will say that the stocks is one of the most innocent. The holes in which are fastened the legs of the prisoner are a little more or less than a palm apart. Leaving two holes vacant, and putting the prisoner’s legs in the holes on either side, would make the position strained, so that the ankles would suffer peculiarly and the lower extremities be stretched apart more than a yard. It does not kill instantly, as may well be imagined.
 
The turnkey, followed by four soldiers, drew back the bolt and opened the door. A nauseating odor, and the thick, damp air escaped from the dense darkness of the prison and, at the same time, groans and sighs were heard. A soldier lighted a match, but the flame was extinguished in that foul, vitiated atmosphere, and they had to wait till the air was renewed.
 
In the vague light of a candle, several human forms could be discerned. They were men, some of whom locked their arms around their knees and hid their heads between them, others were lying down, with their mouths to the ground, some standing, and some leaning against the wall. A blow and a creaking sound was heard, accompanied by oaths; the stocks were being opened. [237]
 
Do?a Consolacion’s body was bent forward, the muscles of her neck were rigid, her eyes riveted to the half open door.
 
Between the soldiers came out Tarsilo, the brother of Bruno. He wore handcuffs. His torn clothes disclosed well-developed muscles. His eyes were fixed insolently on the alferez’s wife.
 
“This is the one who defended himself most bravely, and who ordered his companions to flee,” said the alferez to Father Salví.
 
Behind came another miserable sight, a man crying and weeping like a child. He was limping and his pantaloons were stained with blood.
 
“Mercy, se?or, have mercy! I will not enter the cuartel yard again,” he cried.
 
“He is a crafty fellow,” said the alferez, speaking to the curate. “He wanted to flee, but had received a flesh wound.”
 
“What is your name?” asked the alferez, speaking to Tarsilo.
 
“Tarsilo Alasigan.”
 
“What did Don Crisostomo promise you for attacking the cuartel?”
 
“Don Crisostomo has never communicated with us.”
 
“Don’t deny it! You wanted to surprise us for him!”
 
“You are mistaken. You whipped our father to death. We avenged him and nothing more. Look for your two soldiers!”
 
The alferez looked at the sergeant, surprised.
 
“They are at the bottom of that precipice. We threw them there yesterday. There they will rot. Now kill me! You will know nothing more.”
 
Silence and general surprise.
 
“You are not going to tell who were your accomplices?” said the alferez in a threatening manner and brandishing a whip.
 
A scornful smile curled the lips of the culprit.
 
The alferez conferred for some minutes with the curate in a low voice. Then turning to the soldiers, he ordered:
 
“Take him to where the dead bodies are!”
 
In a corner of the yard, upon an old wagon, were five [238]bodies close together and half covered by a filthy piece of torn matting. A soldier on guard was pacing up and down, and constantly spitting.
 
“Do you recognize them?” asked the alferez, lifting the matting.
 
Tarsilo did not respond. He saw the dead body of Pedro, with two others; one, his own brother, riddled with bayonet wounds, and the other, Lucas, with the rope still around his neck. His look became gloomy and a sigh seemed to escape from his breast.
 
“Do you know them?” they asked him.
 
Tarsilo remained silent.
 
There was a whistling sound and the whip came down across his back. He trembled, and his muscles contracted. The lashes were repeated, but Tarsilo continued impassive.
 
“Let them whip him till they cut him to pieces or till he makes a declaration,” cried the alferez, exasperated.
 
“Speak then!” said the directorcillo to him. “They will surely kill you.”
 
They led him back to the sala of the tribunal, where the other prisoner was invoking God, grating his teeth and shaking on his legs.
 
“Do you know this man?” asked Father Salví.
 
“This is the first time I have ever seen him,” replied Tarsilo, looking with a certain pity on the other.
 
The alferez gave him a cuff with his fist and kicked him.
 
“Tie him to the bench!”
 
Without taking off the bloody handcuffs, he was fastened to the wooden bench. The unhappy fellow looked about him as if in search of some one, and his eyes fell on Do?a Consolacion. He smiled sardonically. Those present were surprised and followed his glance and saw the se?ora. She was biting her lips.
 
“I have never seen an uglier woman,” exclaimed Tarsilo amid the general silence. “I prefer to lie down on this bench as I am doing than to lie by her side, like the alferez.”
 
The Muse turned pale.
 
“You are going to whip me to death, alferez,” he continued, [239]“but to-night I will be avenged by your woman.”
 
“Gag him!” shouted the alferez, furious and trembling with rage.
 
It seemed as though Tarsilo had wanted the gag, for when he had it in his mouth, his eyes gleamed with a ray of satisfaction.
 
At a signal from the alferez a guard, armed with a whip, began his cruel task. The whole body of Tarsilo shrank. A groan, suppressed and prolonged, could be heard in spite of the rag which stopped up his mouth.............