At that moment a soldier among those who heard the violent and insulting reproach raised his gun. Antón Pérez saw it and drawing his sword, threw himself upon the soldier, crying:
“Lower that gun! The first man who attempts to aim, I will run him through.”
Captain Méndez continued:
“I prefer death to the ignominy of finding myself in your company. Traitors! Assassins!”
“Assassins, we are not, my captain, that you have already seen,” replied Antón.
“I am not the captain of bandit-traitors, ex-Lieutenant Pérez.”
“We are not traitors,” returned Pérez, “we desire to save our country, from Yankee usurpation.”
“To save it indeed! and give it over to the foreigner! noble patriots! famous Mexicans!” continued Méndez. “Would that I had no eyes to behold you! Would that I were a lightning-stroke to destroy you. Cursed race! race of scorpions, who repay our country, our sacred motherland, by stinging her to the heart. One last word, Lieutenant Pérez; in the name of our native land, in the name of that oath of fealty, which you swore to the flag, in the name of a man’s sacred duty, I implore you to fulfil your obligations as a soldier, as a Mexican, as a man. Lay down those arms which you are converting from sacred to infamous. Lieutenant Pérez; worthy fellows of Cunduacán, Viva la Republica.”
No one responded.