In silence and with drooping heads the soldiers follow--they know that what he says will surely come to pass. Predictions of his approaching doom had long been current among them; he had himself warned them the hour of separation was near. Not by the sword of the near enemy, nor by the arrow of the distant one, was he fore-doomed to fall. Not slowly was he to fade away upon a bed of mortal sickness: his own dreams and foreign magic had announced to him another doom! The conspirators move silently and solemnly on behind him, as if following a corpse. He already seems to them a spirit. But when he commenced the ascent of the hill, the long plumes of his cap streaming through rocks and trees, appearing and disappearing as he clambers up, they rush into pursuit. Separated only by mossy banks and rocky terraces, they seek the same hilltop. He reaches it the first. Before him flashes upon his eyes a full view of the illuminated castle with its towers and battlemented turrets; at his feet lies the abyss, thundering with the roar of falling waters. An enormous pine has fallen over and bridges the chasm. His men are close upon him; again they try to surround him; pushing off the nearest, he leaps upon the trunk of the gigantic pine, crawls forward upon it, hangs for a moment over the abyss, reaches the other side, descends with marvellous agility, plants himself firmly on the ground, with feverish strength tears out the trunk from the rocks which had held it fast; it trembles for a moment as if swung in a balance; he urges, hurls it on, and at last it falls, crushing and shivering as it strikes heavily against the steep sides of the rocky chasm. The soldiers feel as if dazzled by a sudden flash of lightning, and when the glare passes, it is too late! In the light of the moon they see for the last time his broad brow in the full beauty of life--then the abyss separates them forever. Holding his hands out, suspended above the chasm, as if with his last breath he would bless his people, he cries: 'In the name of God, heroes, eternal struggle between you and the King of the South!' The rocks echo the full tones of the manly voice, and the depths of the valley repeat it. His tall form disappears among the shadows of the pines. The conspirators listen as if hoping to catch one word more. No sound greets them save the sighing of the trees, the dash of the waters--the manly tones of their young hero they will hear no more forever! * * * * *