and, with his shoulders squared, took up the new position,
straightened his back, and once more held himself erect.

As an exhibition of self-control this should surely rank above feats
of heroism performed in battle, where there are thousands of comrades
to give inspiration. This man was alone, in sight of the hills he
knew, with only enemies about him, with no source to draw on for
strength but that which lay within himself.

The officer of the firing squad, mortified by his blunder, hastily
whipped up his sword, the men once more levelled their rifles, the
sword rose, dropped, and the men fired. At the report the Cuban's
head snapped back almost between his shoulders, but his body fell
slowly, as though some one had pushed him gently forward from behind
and he had stumbled.

He sank on his side in the wet grass without a struggle or sound, and
did not move again.

It was difficult to believe that he meant to lie there, that it could
be ended so without a word, that the man in the linen suit would not
rise to his feet and continue to walk on over the hills, as he
apparently had started to do, to his home; that there was not a
mistake somewhere, or that at least some one would be sorry or say
something or run to pick him up.

But, fortunately, he did not need help, and the priests returned--the
younger one with the tears running down his face--and donned their
vestments and read a brief requiem for his soul, while the squad
stood uncovered, and the men in hollow square shook their