adjudged to the scaffold--he smiled when he heard the sentence.

An immense crowd, one bright day in summer, were assembled in the place
of execution. A shout of savage exultation rent the air as Roderigo
Calderon, Marquis de Siete Iglesias, appeared upon the scaffold But,
when the eyes of the multitude rested--not upon that lofty and stately
form, in all the pride of manhood, which they had been accustomed to
associate with their fears of the stern genius and iron power of the
favourite--but upon a bent and spectral figure, that seemed already on
the verge of a natural grave, with a face ploughed deep with traces of
unutterable woe, and hollow eyes that looked with dim and scarce
conscious light over the human sea that murmured and swayed below, the
tide of the popular emotion changed; to rage and triumph succeeded shame
and pity. Not a hand was lifted up in accusation--not a voice was raised
in rebuke or joy. Beside Calderon stood the appointed priest, whispering
cheer and consolation.

"Fear not, my son," said the holy man. "The pang of the body strikes
years of purgatory from thy doom. Think of this, and bless even the
agony of this hour."

"Yes," muttered Calderon; "I do bless this hour. Inez, thy daughter has
avenged thy murder! May Heaven accept the sacrifice! and may my eyes,
even athwart the fiery gulf, awaken upon thee!"

With that a serene and contented smile passed over the face on which the
crowd gazed with breathless awe. A minute more, and a groan, a cry,
broke from that countless multitude; and a gory and ghastly head, severed
from its trunk, was raised on high.