Those eyes of his were terrible.
"Will you give me your word?"
The boy was pale as ice.
Death in cold blood here on the quiet hillside—death like a pig's in a sty…. Ugh!…
"No, thank you."
"Then prepare to meet your Maker."
He turned and fiddled with a pistol, snapped it, cursed in an undertone, and thrust it back in his pocket.
Then he turned again.
The boy stood before him with dark eyes. Slight as a lily, and the colour of one, he seemed to sway in the breeze.
"Give me your word not to speak of what you know till after Thursday next—and you may go."