Free The Marquis of Bolibar by Leo Perutz

gazed at us in turn, wiping the sweat from his brow. All at once he was overcome with despair.
    "Is there no one here to heed me?" he lamented loudly. "Is there no Spanish Christian here to heed me?"
    "Whatever you've left undone, we shall do it for you," said Eglofstein, eager to settle matters. He tapped his riding boot impatiently with his crop. "Well, tell us what's to be done and then be off with you!"
    "You will do it for me?" cried the Spaniard. " You ?"
    "A soldier must be able to turn his hand to anything," said Eglofstein. "Quickly, say what's to be done. You wish some turnips planted, a roof repaired?"
    Again the Spaniard looked from one to another of us, and a sudden thought seemed to strike him.
    "You are Christians, señores," he said. "Swear to me by the Virgin and Child that you will keep your word."
    "To hell with your formalities!" cried Günther. "We're officers. We shall do what we have promised to do, and there's an end on it."
    "Whatever must be done, we shall do in your stead," Eglofstein repeated. "Have you a donkey to sell? Have you debts to collect? What is the task in question?"
    Just then the bells of the nearby church began to ring for midnight Mass, proclaiming to the faithful that the mystery of the holy transubstantiation had been accomplished. The wind bore the sound to us through the chill winter air, and the muleteer did as all Spaniards do when they hear the Mass bell ring out: he went down on his knees, crossed himself, and said in a low, reverent voice, " Dios viene, God is coming."
    "Well," Günther demanded, "what's to be done? Are we to tread a cabbage patch, stick a pig, slaughter an ox?"
    "God will tell you," whispered the Spaniard, still deep in prayer.
    "Is there flour to be sifted, bread to be baked, corn to be hauled to the mill? Answer, fellow!"
    "God will show you," said the Spaniard.
    "Don't be a fool," cried Eglofstein. "Answer! Leave God in peace — he knows nothing of you."
    "God has come," the Spaniard said solemnly, rising to his feet. "You made a vow and God heard it."
    His demeanour had suddenly changed beyond recognition. Gone was the fear he had shown hitherto. No longer a wretched muleteer accused of theft, he stepped up to the sergeant with a proud and dignified air.
    "Here I am, Sergeant. Do your duty."
    It escapes me how I could have failed at that moment to perceive who had fallen into our hands, or how I failed to discern the nature of the task bequeathed us by our doomed prisoner. We were all of us blind and had but one thought in mind: that the man who shared our secret must be silenced for ever.
    At a nod from Captain Eglofstein I went outside to see that the execution proceeded in a swift and orderly manner. The snow, which lay half a foot deep, muffled the footsteps of the marching soldiers. The courtyard was faintly illumined by a full moon.
    The soldiers formed up in line abreast and loaded their muskets. The Spaniard beckoned me over.
    "Hold my dog, Lieutenant," he said. "Hold him fast till it's done."
    From where we stood it was possible to see the dark vineyards and the hilly, moonlit fields that lay beyond the town wall. Mulberry and fig trees loomed above the snow with their naked branches outstretched. Far to the west, the horizon was fringed with a dark, menacing shadow: the distant oak forests in which lurked our foe, the Tanner's Tub, and his hordes.
    "Grant me one last look at the countryside, Lieutenant," said the Spaniard. "This is my land, my native soil. It is for me that those fields turn green, for me that those vines bear fruit and those cattle bring forth young. Mine is the soil that the wind caresses, and mine are the fields that receive the snow and rain and dew from heaven. Mine is all that stirs between those furrows and all that breathes beneath these roofs — mine is all that this sky encompasses. You are a soldier, Lieutenant. You cannot truly understand what it means to say, 'My land, my native soil.' Stand aside and give the