Velasquez turned himself about to his officers with a scornful laugh, exclaiming-- "Verily, my Señors, 'petition' he calls his demand, backed up by threats of Heaven's thunderbolts for refusal. Humility and arrogance could not well be more perfectly combined." The great man's laugh was subserviently echoed by some throats, whilst some other of the faces showed shame, or indifference to the spectacle before them. Montoro de Diego stood yet for some moments gazing with deep, solemn eyes at the Governor. Years before, his father had pleaded for a life with the Inquisitor, Arbues de Epila, and vainly, and had left a true prophecy behind him when he left. So now the son. Turning his eyes slowly from one to another of the group, and then of the wide circle, Montoro raised his hand and cried aloud-- "As that man stands there doomed most basely to a barbarous and cruel death, so may many standing here now, at no long distant date, know what it is to await a horrible death at the pitiless hand of savages." "He is offered mercy if he will become a Christian," suddenly said the Governor with some change of tone, and an involuntary shudder at the horrible mental pictures conjured up by the denunciation. Montoro started. Yes; he had forgotten that. He had forgotten there was yet a hope, and that it was to that he had intended to cling when he accompanied the Indian woman to the scene of judgment. Wasting neither time nor words on ceremony, he turned his back on the Governor, and followed the woman to the edge of the faggot-pile, in the centre of which Hatuey stood, already bound to the stake, and utterly calm as ever, excepting when his eyes seemed constrained to rest upon the sobbing woman at his feet. The priest, Father Olmedo, now stood beside him, exhorting him to change his faith and save his soul. But the admonitions were as though spoken to the wind, for all the heed the Cacique appeared to pay. [Illustration: The priest, Father Olmedo, now stood beside him, exhorting him to change his faith and save his soul. But the admonitions were as though spoken to the wind for all the heed the Cacique appeared to pay.] "It is useless," said Father Olmedo at last. "I have done all I can for mercy's sake, and for the glory of our most holy faith, but he is obstinate and irreclaimable. He will not hearken to me. He will not be saved. Slaves, light the pile." The Indians raised their torches, a thrill ran through the assembled multitude, the crouching woman sprang to her feet with a piercing shriek, flinging her arms above her head, and Montoro sprang forward, shouting in stentorian tones to the faggot-lighters, "Hold!"