For if a man did not grow
accustomed to shed blood in this world, his life would be a burden to
him."
What an inhuman old murderer! I thought. Then I asked him whether he
had ever in his life felt remorse for shedding blood.
"Yes," he answered; "when I was a very young man, and had never before
dipped weapon in human blood; that was when the siege began. I was
sent with half a dozen men in pursuit of a clever spy, who had passed
the lines with letters from the besieged. We came to a house where,
our officer had been informed, he had been lying concealed. The master
of the house was a young man about twenty-two years old. He would
confess nothing. Finding him so stubborn, our officer became enraged,
and bade him step out, and then ordered us to lance him. We galloped
forty yards off, then wheeled back. He stood silent, his arms folded
on his breast, a smile on his lips. Without a cry, without a groan,
with that smile still on his lips, he fell pierced through with our
lances. For days afterwards his face was ever present to me. I could
not eat, for my food choked me. When I raised a jug of water to my
lips I could, senor, distinctly see his eyes looking at me from the
water. When I lay down to sleep, his face was again before me, always
with that smile that seemed to mock me on the lips. I could not
understand it. They told me it was remorse, and that it would soon
leave me, for there is no ill that time will not cure.
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