I heard the voice
of Jorge, the artillerist, say in a queer, doubtful tone, 'It is loaded,
senor.'
"Then another voice in that group pronounced firmly the words, 'Bring
the riata here.' It was the voice of Gaspar Ruiz.
"A silence fell, in which the popping shots of the besieged garrison
rang out sharply. They, too, had observed the group. But the distance
was too great and in the spatter of spent musket-balls cutting up the
ground, the group opened, closed, swayed, giving me a glimpse of busy
stooping figures in its midst. I drew nearer, doubting whether this was
a weird vision, a suggestive and insensate dream.
"A strangely stifled voice commanded, 'Haul the hitches tighter.'
"'Si, senor,' several other voices answered in tones of awed alacrity.
"Then the stifled voice said: 'Like this. I must be free to breathe.'
"Then there was a concerned noise of many men together. 'Help him up,
hombres. Steady! Under the other arm.'
"That deadened voice ordered: 'Bueno! Stand away from me, men.'
"I pushed my way through the recoiling circle, and heard once more that
same oppressed voice saying earnestly: 'Forget that I am a living man,
Jorge.
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