It was a long night—the longest I can remember—a night that fully illustrated the horror of monotony. I can compare our feelings to those of one under the influence of the nightmare. But, no—worse than that. Our savage sentries occasionally sat down upon our bodies, and, lighting their cigaritos, chatted gaily while we groaned. We could not protest; we were gagged. But it would have made little difference; they would only have mocked us the more.

We lay glaring upon the moon as she coursed through a cloudy heaven. The wind whistled through the leaves, and its melancholy moaning sounded like our death-dirge. Several times through the night I heard the howl of the prairie wolf, and I knew it was Lincoln; but the Jarochos had pickets all around, and the hunter dared not approach our position. He could not have helped us.

The morning broke at last; and we were taken up, tied upon the backs of vicious mules, and hurried off through the woods. We travelled for some distance along a ridge, until we had reached its highest point, where the cliff beetled over. Here we were unpacked, and thrown upon the grass. About thirty of the Jarochos guarded us, and we now saw them under the broad light of day; but they did not look a whit more beautiful than they had appeared under the glare of the blazing rancho on the preceding night.

Lopez was at their head, and never relaxed his vigilance for a moment. It was plain that he considered the padre a man of his word.

After we had remained about half an hour on the brow of the cliff, an exclamation from one of the men drew our attention; and, looking round, we perceived a band of horsemen straggling up the hill at a slow gallop. It was Jarauta, with about fifty of his followers. They were soon close up to us.

“Buenos dias, caballeros!” (Good day, gentlemen!) cried their leader in a mocking tone, leaping down and approaching us, “I hope you passed the night comfortably. Lopez, I am sure, provided you with good beds. Didn’t you, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain,” answered the laconic Lopez.

“The gentlemen rested well; didn’t they, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“No kicking or tumbling about, eh?”

“No, Captain.”

“Oh! then they rested well; it’s a good thing: they have a long journey before them—haven’t they, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I hope, gentlemen, you are ready for the road. Do you think you are ready?”

As each of us had the shank of a bayonet between his teeth, besides being tied neck and heels, it is not likely that this interrogatory received a reply; nor did his “reverence” expect any, as he continued putting similar questions in quick succession, appealing occasionally to his lieutenant for an answer. The latter, who was of the taciturn school, contented himself, and his superior too, with a simple “yes” or “no.”

Up to this moment we had no knowledge of the fate that awaited us. We knew we had to die—that we knew; but in what way we were still ignorant. I, for one, had made up my mind that the padre intended pitching us over the cliffs.

We were at length enlightened upon this important point. We were not to take that awful leap into eternity which I had been picturing to myself. A fate more horrible still awaited us. We were to be hanged over the precipice!

As if to aid the monster in his inhuman design, several pine-trees grew out horizontally from the edge of the cliff; and over the branches of these the Jarochos commenced reeving their long lazos. Expert in the handling of ropes, as all Mexicans are, they were not long in completing their preparations, and we soon beheld our gallows.

“According to rank, Lopez,” cried Jarauta, seeing that all was ready; “the captain first—do you hear?”

“Yes, Captain,” answered the imperturbable brigand who superintended the operations.

“I shall keep you to the last, Monsieur,” said the priest, addressing Raoul; “you will have the pleasure of bringing up the rear in your passage through purgatory. Ha! ha! ha! Won’t he, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Maybe some of you would like a priest, gentlemen.” This Jarauta uttered with an ironical grin that was revolting to behold. “If you would,” he continued, “say so. I sometimes officiate in that capacity myself. Don’t I, Lopez?”

“Yes, Captain.”

A diabolical laugh burst from the Jarochos, who had dismounted, and were standing out upon the cliff, the better to witness the spectacle of our hanging.

“Well, Lopez, does any of them say ‘yes’?”

“No, Captain.”

“Ask the Irishman there; ask him—he ought to be a good Catholic.”

The question was put to Chane, in mockery, of course, for it was impossible for him to answer it; and yet he did answer it, for his look spoke a curse as plainly as if it had been uttered through a trumpet. The Jarochos did not heed that, but only laughed the louder.

“Well, Lopez, what says Saint Patrick? ‘Yes’ or ‘no’?”

“‘No’, Captain.”

And a fresh peal of ruffian laughter rang out.

The rope was now placed around my neck in a running noose. The other end had been passed over the tree, and lay coiled near the edge of the cliff. Lopez held it in his hand a short distance above the coil, in order to direct its movements.

“All ready there, Lopez?” cried the leader.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Swing off the captain, then—no, not yet; let him look at the floo............