Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 106: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

96 Hope leaped in the condemned man’s heart. They had found that he was not guilty—the American minister had in- tervened—he had been reprieved. He told the man everything that he asked, and they talked for hours. “Do you not want a priest?” the Ital- ian asked him suddenly. “No,” answered Tarquin. “I do not believe in that sort of thing.” “No? But even so. It is good to talk with one who has experience in this sort of thing—who has talked with others who are—as you are.” Again Tarquin despaired. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Are you a prisoner or a spy? Are you also sentenced to death ?”’ “No,” said the Italian gently. “I am come here only to talk to you. I wanted to know you.” Tarquin fell silent and ceased to an- swer. The distraction of the man’s presence, of the hope that he might be saved, fell away in the terrible idea of death. He brooded. He began to wish that he had asked for a priest, that he might talk to him about God, the unknown God, and about the terrible jump that he was to make in the dark. It was not what he was going to face. It was the transcendant loneliness of it all, and the horror of waiting. He understood why men com- mitted suicide on the eve of execution. He felt a sudden warm gratitude to- ward the Italian for being there with him. It occurred to him that his nerves were bad. He had drunk strong black coffee the night before. One thing haunted him. He, whose name had gone through Soriano during the few weeks of the revolution as a byword for valor, was to be shot publicly. What a horror, what an unspeakable degrada- tion it would be if he broke down! He put his hand on the Italian’s shoulder. “Tell me ” he commenced, with his soul in his voice. The Italian quiv- ered with emotion. But again there came the tramp of feet in the corridor. AINSLEE’S It was a squad this time, and a man with his breakfast. The squad waited, and, as he ate slowly, he heard the clock boom out eight strokes. Four hours more. He hugged them to his breast, those four precious hours of life. When he had finished, the Italian poured something white from a flask into a cup, and offered it to him. “Tt is aguardiente,”’ he said. Tarquin handed the cup back politely. “No, thank you,” he answered. The Italian gulped it down himself. All the soldiers were eying Tarquin, yet each time he met their gaze their glances fell. The Italian took him by the arm. “Come,” he said kindly. “You must prepare yourself for a surprise.” “A reprieve?” cried Tarquin. “T must not tell you.” They marched him forth from the prison into the blinding sunshine. The plaza was alive with people in fiesta attire. A lane held by two lines of sol- diers led through them across to an open space beside the great bulk of the cathe- dral. The trees were bright and green; down a long street he could see the sparkling waters of the bay, and the cerro beyond with its fort and light- house, and the sun, and stripes of the gay flag of Soriano fluttering above them. Tarquin threw his hand before his eyes, and shook off the Italian’s arm. “T can walk alone,” he said. It was a terrible passage to run the gantlet of those thousands of people through that narrow lane, and a spasm of doubt went through Tarquin. “T have changed my mind,” he said hurriedly to the Italian, who continued by his side. “I would like to speak with a priest.” “There is no time,” answered the other gently. A face peering out from the crowd as he passed fascinated Tarquin. It stared at him white and mute, and he recog- nized one of his comrades—one to whom his word had been law in the fighting. As they neared the cathedral Tarquin saw four soldiers carrying something on a litter. (C@) Ook (S@)