“Were my foot free upon yonder mountain, I eould within six hours hold Juan Diez by the hand,” returned the condemned. “Enough. A thousand Napoleons are on his head. Wilt thou place the enemy of France within my power?” “Never!” “Think--thy life hangs upon the answer: wilt thou win gold and freedom?” repeated the Frenchman. “Never!--the word is spoken.” In a moment the younger Spaniard threw the arm that had remained unshackled around his comrade’s neck. “Velasquez,” he said, “I doubted thee, and feared that thy courage might fail. Thou hast much to bind thee to life; but is a life of infamy like that false traitor’s,”--and he pointed to the Alcade,--“is such worth holding?--No. But as thou hast addressed this our executioner, so too will I.” Colonel La Coste knitted his brows together, and the young guerilla thus continued:-- “I am indebted to you; I have escaped the insult offered to my companion, for you did not propose life to me at the expense of faith and honour. Velasquez has told you a sad history--now hear mine. I am a soldier’s orphan--I have no kindred left; for when my only uncle, the good old canon of Seville died, I saw my last relative on earth committed to the grave. I was then a student, and, but for circumstances, would have been, most probably, a monk. You came, and war, and violence, and insult, followed in your footsteps. Day after day I heard the hateful tale of French oppression, until my blood became gall, and I burned to take vengeance on the invaders. The slow and cautious movements of regular warfare were unsuited to a spirit active and ardent as mine; I sought a daring leader, and found him in Juan Diez. For three years I have followed the Empecinado. Would you know more of me?--ask who I am? Mine is a title seeond only to my leader’s--I am ‘The Student,’ Jose Martinez!” He ceased, as he announced his name. La Coste, the moment that the words w’ere uttered, signed to a chasseur, whispered some secret order, and then, turning to the guerillas, he coldly pronounced their doom. “The time is short,” he added; “have either of you aught to ask for?” “I would wish,” replied the elder Spaniard, “to spend a few minutes with a priest.” “The Curé shall be sent for,” replied the French commandant; “and thou, young man--hast thou no request to make?” “None from _thee!_” returned the Student, boldly. “Here! Landlord, fetch me a cup of wine!” The order was obeyed: and holding the untasted horn in his hand, he thus continued: “‘Tis the last wine that I shall drink! Tell the Empecinado, also, what was the last pledge that passed the lips of José Martinez!---‘Viva Espana!--Mueran los Franceses!’” * And he emptied the cup to the bottom. * Live Spain!--Death to the French!