As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans.  There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches itself to a race that has been subjugated.  Long before the form of a trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had accepted his fate.  Not so his father.  He pleaded with all his soul for his son’s life.  But he touched no heart there.  The jury had decided on the death-sentence before they left their seats.

And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carrying it out.  It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficient number of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner for any length of time.  David was to die at sunset.

Three hours yet remained to the miserable father.  He threw aside all pride and all restraint.  Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart.  But these last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had.  What confessions of mutual faults were made!  What kisses and forgivenesses were exchanged!  At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill of mistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other.  Sometimes the Lord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed.  They are of those royal compassions which astonish even the angels.

When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward his father.  “It is my last request,” he said, looking into his face with eyes whose entreaty was pathetic.  “You must grant it, father, hard as it is.”

Lorimer’s hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned pale as ashes when he read the contents.

“I canna, I canna do it,” he whispered.

“Yes, you will, father.  It is the last favor I shall ask of you.”

The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared to voice it.  It was this—­

“Father, be my executioner.  Do not let me be hung.  The rope is all I dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life.”

For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone.  Then he rose and went to the jury.  They were sitting together under some mulberry trees, smoking.  Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their verdict.  Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty.

Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son’s request.  He pleaded, “That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim.”

But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he must oppose such a request.  It was the rope, he thought, made the punishment.  He hoped no Texan feared a bullet.  A clean, honorable death like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood.  Every rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they were given a precedent.  And arguments that would have been essentially false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one.  The men gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further pleading was in vain.  Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request would be granted.