The officer who had held the cord that bound the Cuban's arms behind
him and passed across his breast, let it fall on the grass and drew
his sword, and Rodriguez dropped his cigarette from his lips and bent
and kissed the cross which the priest held up before him.

The elder of the priests moved to one side and prayed rapidly in a
loud whisper, while the other, a younger man, walked behind the
firing squad and covered his face with his hands. They had both
spent the last twelve hours with Rodriguez in the chapel of the
prison.

The Cuban walked to where the officer directed him to stand, and
turning his back on the square, faced the hills and the road across
them, which led to his father's farm.

As the officer gave the first command he straightened himself as far
as the cords would allow, and held up his head and fixed his eyes
immovably on the morning light, which had just begun to show above
the hills.

He made a picture of such pathetic helplessness, but of such courage
and dignity, that he reminded me on the instant of that statue of
Nathan Hale which stands in the City Hall Park, above the roar of
Broadway. The Cuban's arms were bound, as are those of the statue,
and he stood firmly, with his weight resting on his heels like a
soldier on parade, and with his face held up fearlessly, as is that
of the statue. But there was this difference, that Rodriguez, while
probably as willing to give six lives for his country as was the
American rebel, being only a peasant, did not think to say so, and he