“I can’t take over the job of administering justice,?he replied. “If you have something to say, tell it to the court-martial.?
?rsula not only did that she also brought all of the mothers of the revolutionary officers who lived in Macondo to testify. One by one the old women who had been founders of the town, several of whom had taken part in the daring crossing of the mountains, praised the virtues of General Moncada. ?rsula was the last in line. Her gloomy dignity, the weight of her name, the convincing vehemence of her declaration made the scale of justice hesitate for a moment. “You have taken this horrible game very seriously and you have done well because you are doing your duty,?she told the members of the court. “But don’t forget that as long as God gives us life we will still be mothers and no matter how revolutionary you may be, we have the right to pull down your pants and give you a whipping at the first sign of disrespect.?The court retired to deliberate as those words still echoed in the school that had been turned into a barracks. At midnight General Jos?Raquel Moncada was sentenced to death. Colonel Aureliano Buendía, in spite of the violent recriminations of ?rsula, refused to commute the sentence. A short while before dawn he visited the condemned man in the room used as a cell.
“Remember, old friend,?he told him. “I’m not shooting you. It’s the revolution that’s shooting you.?
General Moncada did not even get up from the cot when he saw him come in.
“Go to hell, friend,?he answered.
Until that moment, ever since his return. Colonel Aureliano Buendía had not given himself the opportunity to see him with his heart. He was startled to see how much he had aged, how his hands shook, and the rather punctilious conformity with which he awaited death, and then he felt a great disgust with himself, which he mingled with the beginnings of pity.