A sudden thought flashed through my mind.
“You wish to kill me,” said I; “it cannot matter to you how I die. If I answer your questions, will you let me choose the manner of my own death?”
“Yes, I will,” said he, “so long as it is before midnight to-night.”
“Swear it!” I cried.
“The word of a Portuguese gentleman is sufficient,” said he.
“Not a word will I say until you have sworn it.”
He flushed with anger and his eyes swept round toward the saw. But he understood from my tone that I meant what I said, and that I was not a man to be bullied into submission. He pulled a cross from under his zammara or jacket of black sheepskin.
“I swear it,” said he.
Oh, my joy as I heard the words! What an end—what an end for the first swordsman of France! I could have laughed with delight at the thought.
“Now, your questions!” said I.