in a complete suit of black velvet without lace; a heavy gold chain hung round his neck, a broad leafed hat of black felt, ornamented with an eagle's feather, covered his head, a long sword, with a hilt of polished steel, hung by his side.

His brow was marked with wrinkles, his eyebrows were closely knitted above his black eyes, which appeared to dart lightning.

A shudder of terror pervaded the ranks of the assembly—Don Ramón Garillas had put on the robe of justice.

Justice was then about to be done?

But upon whom?

When Don Ramón had taken his place on the right hand of his wife, he made a sign.

The mayoral went out, and returned a minute after, followed by Rafaël.

The young man was bareheaded, and had his hands tied behind his back.

With his eyes cast down, and a pale face, he placed himself before his father, whom he saluted respectfully.

At the period at which our history passes, in those countries remote from towns and exposed to the continual incursions of the Indians, the heads of families preserved, in all its purity, that patriarchal authority which the efforts of our depraved civilization have a tendency to lessen, and, at length, to destroy. A father was sovereign in his own house, his judgments were without appeal, and executed without murmurs or resistance.

The people of the farm were acquainted with the firm character and implacable will of their master; they knew that he never pardoned, that his honour was dearer to him than life; it was then with a sense of undefinable fear that they prepared to witness the terrible drama which was about to be performed before them between the father and the son.

Don Ramón arose, cast a dark glance round upon the assembly, and threw his hat at his feet:

"Listen all to me," he said in a sharp but most distinct voice; "I am of an old Christian race, whose ancestors have never done wrong; honour has always in my house been considered as the first of earthly goods; that honour which my ancestors transmitted to me intact, and which I have endeavoured to preserve pure, my first-born son, the inheritor of my name, has sullied by an indelible stain. Yesterday, at Hermosillo, in consequence of a tavern quarrel, he set fire to a house, at the risk of burning down the whole city, and when a man endeavoured to prevent his escape, he killed him with a poniard stroke. What can be thought of a boy who, at so tender an age, is endowed with the instincts of a wild beast? Justice must be done, and, by God's help, I will do it severely."

After these words, Don Ramón crossed his arms upon his breast, and appeared to reflect.

No one durst hazard a word in favour of the accused; all heads were bent down, all hearts were palpitating.

Rafaël was beloved by his father's servants on account of his intrepidity, which yielded to no obstacles, for his skill in managing a horse, and in the use of all arms, and more than all, for the frankness and kindness which formed the most striking features of his character. In this country particularly, where the life of a man is reckoned of so little value, everyone was inwardly disposed to excuse the youth, and to see nothing in the action he had committed but the result of warmth of blood and hasty passion.

Doña Jesuita arose; without a murmur she had always bent to the will of her husband, whom for many years she had been accustomed to respect; the mere idea of resisting him terrified her, and sent a cold shudder through her veins; but all the loving powers of her soul were concentrated in her heart. She adored her children, Rafaël in particular, whose indomitable character stood more in need than the others, of the watchful cares of a mother.

"Sir," she said to her husband, in a voice choked with tears, "remember that Rafaël is your first-born; that his fault, however serious it might be, ought not to be inexcusable in your eyes, as you are his father; and that I—I—" she continued, falling on her knees, clasping her hands and sobbing, "I implore your pity! pardon, sir! pardon for your son!"

"Don Ramón coldly raised his wife, whose face was inundated with tears, and after obliging her to resume her place in her chair, he said,—

"It is particularly as a father, that my heart ought to be without pity! Rafaël is an assassin and an incendiary; he is no longer my son!"

"What do you mean to do?" Doña Jesuita cried, in accents of terror.

"What does that concern you, madam?" Don Ramón replied harshly; "the care of my honour concerns me alone. Sufficient for you to know that this fault is the last your son will commit."

"Oh!" she said with terror, "will you then become his executioner?"

"I am his judge," the implacable gentleman replied in a terrible voice. "Nô Eusebio, get two horses ready."

"My God! my God!" the poor mother cried, rushing towards her son, whom she folded closely in her arms, "will no one come to my succour?"

All present were moved; Don Ramón himself could not restrain a tear.

"Oh!" she cried with a wild joy, "he is saved! God has softened the heart of this inflexible man!"

"You are mistaken, madam," Don Ramón interrupted, pushing her roughly back, "your son is no longer mine, he belongs to my justice!"

Then fixing on his son a look cold as a steel blade, he said in a voice so stern that in spite of himself it made the young man start.

"Don Rafaël, from this instant you no longer form a part of this society, which your crimes have horrified; it is with wild beasts that I condemn you to live and die."

At this terrible sentence, Doña Jesuita took a few steps towards her son, but, tottering, she fell prostrate—she had fainted.

Up to this moment Rafaël had, with a great effort, suppressed in his heart the emotions which agitated him, but at this last accident he could no longer restrain himself; he sprang towards his mother, burst into tears, and uttered a piercing cry:

"My mother! my mother!"

"Come this way," said Don Ramón, laying his hand upon his shoulder.

The boy stopped, staggering like a drunken man.

"Look, sir! pray look!" he cried, with a heartbroken sob; "my mother is dying!"

"It is you who have killed her!" the hacendero replied coldly.

Rafaël turned round as if a serpent had stung him; he darted at his father a look of strange expression, and, with clenched teeth and a livid brow said to him,

"Kill me, sir; for I swear to you that in the same manner as you have been pitiless to my mother and me, if I live I will be hereafter pitiless to you!"

Don Ramón cast upon him a look of contempt.

"Come on!" he said.

"Come on, then!" the boy repeated in a firm tone.

Doña Jesuita, who was beginning to recover her senses, perceived the departure of her son, as if in a dream.

"Rafaël! Rafaël!" she shrieked.

The young man hesitated for a second; then, with a bound, he sprang towards her, kissed her with wild tenderness, and rejoining his father, said—

"Now I can die! I have bidden adieu to my mother!"

And they went out.

The household, deeply moved by this scene, separated without communicating their impressions to each other, but all penetrated with sincere grief.

Under the caresses of her son, the poor mother had again lost all consciousness.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MOTHER.

Two horses, held by the bridle by Nô Eusebio, were waiting at the door of the hacienda.

"Shall I accompany you, señor?" asked the major-domo.

"No!" the hacendero replied drily.

He mounted and placed his son across the saddle before him.

"Take back the second horse," he said; "I do not want it."

And plunging his spurs into the sides of his horse, which snorted with pain, he set off at full speed.

The major-domo returned to the house, shaking his head sadly.

As soon as the