A Scheme of Atrocity.

Discomfited—chagrined by his discomfiture—burning with shame at the pitiful spectacle he has afforded to his followers—Uraga returns within his tent like an enraged tiger. Not as one robbed of its prey—he is still sure of this as ever; for he has other strings to his bow, and the weak one just snapped scarce signifies.

But for having employed it to no purpose he now turns upon Roblez, who counselled the course that has ended so disastrously.

The adjutant is a safe target on which to expend the arrows of his spleen, and to soothe his perturbed spirit he gives vent to it.

In time, however, he gets somewhat reconciled; the sooner by gulping down two or three glasses of Catalan brandy. Along with the liquor, smoking, as if angry at his cigar, and consuming it through sheer spite, Roblez endeavours to soothe him by consolative speech.

“What matters it, after all!” puts in the confederate. “It may be that everything has been for the best. I was wrong, no doubt, in advising as I did. Still, as you see, it’s gained us some advantage.”

“Advantage! To me the very reverse. Only to think of being chased about my own camp by a man who is my prisoner! And before the eyes of everybody! A pretty story for our troopers to tell when they get back to Albuquerque! I, Colonel commanding, will be the jest of the cuartel!”

“Nothing of the kind, colonel! There is nothing to jest about. Your prisoner chanced to possess himself of your sword—a thing no one could have anticipated. He did it adroitly, but then you were at the time unsuspecting. Disarmed, what else could you do but retreat from a man, armed, desperate, determined on taking your life. I’d like to see anyone who’d have acted otherwise. Under the circumstances only an insane man would keep his ground. The episode has been awkward, I admit. But it’s all nonsense—excuse me for saying so—your being sensitive about that part of it. And for the rest, I say again, it’s given us an advantage; in short, the very one you wanted, if I understand your intentions aright.”

“In what way?”

“Well, you desired a pretext, didn’t you?”

“To do what?”

“Court-martial your prisoners, condemn, and execute them. The attempt on your life will cover all this, so that the keenest scandal-monger may not open his lips. It will be perfectly en regie for you to hang or shoot Don Valerian Miranda—and, if you like, the doctor, too—after ten minutes’ deliberation over a drum’s head. I’m ready to organise the court according to your directions.”

To this proposal Uraga replies with a significant smile, saying:

“Your idea is not a bad one; but I chance to have a better. Much as I hate Miranda and wish him out of the way, I don’t desire to imbrue my hands in his blood; don’t intend to, as I’ve already hinted to you.”

Roblez turns upon his superior officer a look of incredulous surprise, interrogating,—

“You mean to take him back, and let him be tried in the regular way?”

“I mean nothing of the kind.”

“I thought it strange, after your telling me he would never leave this place alive.”

“I tell you so still.”

“Colonel! you take pleasure in mystifying me. If you’re not going to try your prisoners by court-martial, in what way are your words to be made good? Surely you don’t intend to have them shot without form of trial?”

“I’ve said I won’t imbrue my hands in their blood.”

“True, you’ve said that more than once, but ............