Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 34, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 September 1898 — HER UNAVAILING SACRIFICE. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HER UNAVAILING SACRIFICE.

. T was very quiet, i very tranquil, in barracks that day, and from the deserted grounds, where only a solitary sentry or two paced up and down, none of the usual barrack-room talk, laughter, or singing could be heard. For every

soldier, band-man, and officer had been called to the officers’ police quarters, where a fellow-soldier was being tried for his life by the court-martial. It was during the revolutionary days, when power was vested in the hands of the military. They had the right to say whether or not Private Santiago Moreno was guilty of manslaughter, and whether, In payment thereof, he should die. No women were present in the grim, fortress-like quarters; only the soldiers who stood in silent, stern rows around the room. On the dais sat the colonel, the mayor, and some lesser officers; fronting them, straight and erect, with shoulders thrown back, stood the prisoner, Santiago Moreno. He was a good-looking fellow, and the star on his uniform lapel showel that he had received credit "for valor in the field.” Not a flicker of an eyelid, not a movement, showed what he felt; there was not even a tremor when the colonel, after long and grave discussion, at the last stood up, with the other officers grouped about him, and pronounced the sentence of death—"that on the morning of the following day, Private Santiago Moreno would be escorted to the plains of .San Geronimo, and there be put by the ley de fuga to death.’’ That was all. The prisoner drew himself up, and saluted, his face no more concerned than that of the men about him, and was taken to his <-.41. Fhe soldiers melted away, group by group, some of them displaying sorrow, some unconcern, and others auger. For the slaying of his compan-ion-in-arms by Private Moreno had been a very cold-blooded and more than vsr.ally wicked deed, even in a couny where wicked deeds are common. jv with deliberate intention Moreno I ul waited for the other, after parting wit li his sweetheart, Pancha, and coolly and methodically -bored a dagger straight to his heart. For it he had offered no excuse or defense, stating merely that the murdered soldier had “annoyed Panchlta; that a Caballero cannot allow such a thing as the molesting of his novla.” In his small stone cell—once the room set apart for those about to suffer in the auto da fe of the Inquisition days— Private Moreno walked about, whistling a gay Mexican danza, hunting the while for writing materials. He wanted to write adios to his sweetheart, he stated lightly to the warder, who was eying him warily, one hand on his pistol. Though Moreno might not be armed, he was a man to be watched. But at the prisoner’s wish to write a note to Panchita, the warder’s face relaxed, and he offered to find pencil and paper. For Panchlta was his own cousin, and every one loved the gay, pretty girl, with her artless, innocent ways that had hired two men on to death. Poor little Panchlta! Five minutes after the death sentence had been pronounced, she knew of it, and, her door locked, was lying face downward on the cold stone floor, moaning and crying to the Virgin for help. It had all been her fault, as she knew- through her two men would go to p oratory, aa* how would she answer for them ? Otl the shrine before her, decked out in blue and white, was a tiny, yellow Image of the Christ, with blood-stained body and hands. Underneath Him hung the holy pictured face of the Virgin, and to the two, Panchita, weak and faint from long fasting and crying, was pouring out heart and soul. Only that Santiago—her Santiago—might be saved somehow—in some way. Ay buen Dios—Marie madre de Dios—take her life—her soul for torture in purgatory—only let Santiago escape! Too weak to pray aloud, she had crawled before the shrine, and with burning, tear-covered face was faintly whispering her petitions. The girl drew herself up numbly on her knees, sobs that came from her very soul still shaking her slender body- A. sound outside startled her, natll she remembered that Santiago’s had come to weep and lament

wnn ner own motner. out there, in she j patio, they were lamenting and wail- j lug with loud cries. How could they do it like that—walling and shrieking po that the neighbors could hear? How angry Santiago would be if he could hear them making such a noise over . him! She cast one more pltnul glance < at the Virgin, but the sweet, calm face i was so quiet, so restful, so little disturbed. What was the use to ask her anything? No, there was no help. She stood up, tottering, and moved over to the window. There was no one in ■ sight; the hot sunshine poured down on the yellow sandy street and the gray adobe walls. Out in the middle of the callejon some dogs and small children rolled and tumbled in the dust together in high glee. A burro, with melancholy face and long, drooping ears, munched alfalfa, while his owner drank pulque in the pulque-shop near by. It was all so ordinary, so everyday; and yet Santiago was to be shot to-morrow! That Is, unless she could think of a plan to save him. There was a sudden clatter, and the children scattered rapidly, with many duckings and bobbings of their small, fat bodies, as good Padre Francisco, on his pacing mare, turned the corner and went rapidly down the street. Behind him rode a mozo on a hacienda horse. Panchita thought dully that some oue at the pulque hacienda of San Juan must be very ill and wanted the padre for confession. It would be a long ride for the good old man, because San Juan was many miles away. He would be absent from the town for over a day. Pulling at the strings of his soutane, Padre Francisco rode on, his old black I cloak flapping in the breeze. It was so old and shabby that even Panchita’s dim eyes could not but remark It. Poor Padre Francisco, with no one to look after his clothes—he was a good man, and really deserved a better cloak than that shabby thing! Perhaps, if she asked her father, he would allow her to take the cloak that had belonged to her uncle, a priest of the same order as Padre Francisco, to give to the latter good man. And the hood that the padre wore, covering his head and nearlj’ all his face—was ever anything seen like It? One could, of a surety, wear it to a masquerade; perhaps she might borrow it for the next “Balle de Mascaros.” At the thought she laughed and choked—it would be a good disguise. The next moment she was weeping her heart out, pressing passionate kisses on the cold feet of the ivory Christ. He had heard her, after all, and the Virgin had helped her—interceded for lief! For now she knew what to do, and Santiago should be saved. There was a plan—the Holy Mother had sent it to her. Now to carry it out. At G o’clock that evening the soldier on guard before Santiago’s door admitted without question the thin, stooped form of Padre Francisco, cloaked and hooded in his usual manner, and carrying prayer-books and rosary. The good father was silently telling his beads, and the soldier bowed humbly ’and crossed himself as he opened the door, speaking no word. For no Catholic is privileged to address a priest who is counting his rosary-beads—it is a sign that silence Is desired. The cell door opened and closed silently after the padre, and rhe watches outside heard a smothered, impatient ejaculation from Private Moreno, who was smoking a cigarette and trying to write that adios to Panchita. Then the door was locked, for the padre was going to confess the prisoner,, and the guards retired, laughing at the idea of confession for Santiago—the wickedest dog In the army of Mexico. Lounging in the doorway, the soldiers speculated lazily as to what was going on in the condemned cell, it was so quiet. Not even a murmur could be heard, and finally the men agreed that the padre was praying silently, with Santiago cursing in the other corner of the room.

It was dark —quite dark—when Padre Francisco came out, with head bowed lower than ever, cloak wrapped disconsolately about him, and fingers still telling his beads. He had been there for an hour, and surely Santiago was either talked down or dead ny this time. “Shall we go and see?” asked a guard. “No, hombre; let the poor brute alone,” said another. To the men who watched all night for fear that the prisoner might escape, it seemed a century before midnight gave way to the darkness that comes before dawn, though to the prisoner—quien sabe! Such waiting is hard even on the men who are not to die, and there was a sound of relief when at last the first bugle sounded! it was time to get the prisoner and march. Because a soldier is allowed two privileges—to be executed before dawn, and to be shot in his uniform. There was no need to change the clothes of Private Santiago Moreno; so far as costume was concerned, he was ready. In front of the prison, stiffly drawn up into line, in the darkaess, stood the squad of the Twenty-third (Private Moreno’s own regiment), tv ho were to attend to the “law of fire,” and in the corridor waited Impatiently the two guards who were detailed to walk on either side of him. The prisoner, however, was not ready; and deep disgust and scorn was shown on every face •when the warder appeared and stated grimly that the prisoner was weeping como un nino, and had begged one moment’s grace. Weeping, indeed! A pretty way for 4 soldier of the Twentythird to die! And men who had thought privately that they would aim low in the ley dp fuga, hardened their hearts—a oowarp did not deserve such treatment. i

That the prisoner, barely visible in the graj- dawn, was perfectly calm and composed when he did appear made no difference to them; perhaps lie had mustered up some courage, after his weeping, but he had played the coward for all that, and a coward’s death was no loss. Out on the bare, swampy plains of San Geronimo, just where Mount Ajusco rises up bleak and rock-covered, was the place of execution. The walk was not long for the men, to the sound of the muffled marcha, but very dreary. There was hardly light enough to see each other’s faces, and the trees and cactus shrubs loomed up gray and ghostly along the side of the rocky trail. As for the condemned man, though he might have played the part of a coward in the prison, there was no sign of fear now. With quick, light steps, almost out-distancing the regular pace of the others, he walked out bravely, as though going to another decoration by el presidents, instead of to the death of a murderer, at the hands of the very men with whom he had fought at Matanzas, and Huelie and other places, arm to arm, back to back. Here was the spot And, with his back to Ajusco, his feet sinking Into the damp ground, and the gray mist of the morning resting like a pall about him, tiw prisoner was allowed to stand for a moment, while the Captain made a brief address, concluding with the statement that only because the prisoner was a soldier tflF"“law of fire” would be*ut Into effegtijFhep the wordl << wio r

-—~ "Sw tm w run ror nis life. On the craggy side of Ajusco;- he might find shelter, perhaps. “Unodos—tree” would be counted; at “tree” the squad would fire. Therefore he would have to hasten—otherwise, God have mercy on his soul. “Atencion!” The soldiers stood on guard. “Uno!” was counted slowly. The prisoner stood stock still, and the man nearest swore that there was a smile on his face. “Dos!”—(Dios de la vida, was, he paralyzed, that he could not run, even to save his life?) —and at last, slowly, “Tres! Fire!” Motionless, horrified, the men had watched. Still the prisoner stood there, head up and shoulders back. At the sound of the “tree,” however, muskets were lowered, and every hammer pulled. Out thundered the salute of bullets, a veritable hall of them, and the solitary, pathetic figure tottered, then reeled over, face downward, In the damp grass. Dead, of course—how -•ould it be otherwise? The Captain should havelooked to make sure, but he wanted bis breakfast and some cognac; merely glancing casually at the body, he gave the order to march, and with the marcha once more ringing out the men tramped back through the light of the coming day to barracks and breakfast, leaving the dead man alone on the plain. The next day Private Santiago Moreno himself, whom we have seen shot and left dead on the San Geronimo plains, was there at sunset, pale, crazed with grief, and holding in big arms a dead body In the uniform of a soldier, but with the sweet, peaceful face of a woman who had offered up her life for a friend. When the sun went down his lifeless form remained, still clasping—even in death—the other body that had been thought his.—San Francisco Argonaut.