her, that I died worth millions, but not that I breathed my last on such a bed as this."
I bowed in token of assent, and Don Jaime employed the little strength that was left him in telling me where to find his house, near Vergara, in Biscay. I promised to fulfill this last request. A vague, meaningless smile now played upon the dying man's lips, that moved only in a prayer he put up in which his mother's name was mentioned. These were his last words. I wiped away the foam that covered his lips with a corner of his cloak, and closed the eyes, which were wide open and staring. At this moment some body touched me on the shoulder. I turned about. A man whose entrance I had not noticed stood behind me. By his staff I saw he was an alcalde.
"Well, Señor Cavalier," said he, "you would give something, I know, to have satisfaction for the death of this young man. I am convinced you would; be calm the eye of justice sees it all."
"When it is too late," I said, in a low tone.
"Is he a friend—a relation—a brother perhaps?" asked the alcalde.
I knew Mexican law too well to allow myself to be taken in by this appearance of compassion and interest, and said nothing.
"Well, I am waiting for your declaration," pursued he, with an engaging air.
"My declaration, Señor Alcalde, is this" (and I inwardly asked pardon of the corpse lying before me for the lie I was about to utter): "I declare that I don't know, nor ever have known, this young man."[1]
- ↑ By professing relationship, or even acquaintance, with one who has fallen by assassination, you render yourself, in Mexico, bound to defray the expenses of justice.
