knew, with only enemies about him, with no source to draw on for
strength but that which lay within himself.

[Illustration: The Cuban Martyrdom]

The officer of the firing squad, mortified by his blunder, hastily
whipped up his sword, the men once more leveled 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
get up on 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 accoutrements into
place, and shifted their pieces and got ready for the order to march,
and the band began again with the same quickstep which the fusillade
had interrupted.