“I'll do it,” said I, doggedly; “I'll keep my oath.”
“Such an oath never bound any man; it is a snare of Satan.”
“So it may,—I 'll keep it,” said I, beating the deck with my foot, with the dogged determination of one not to be turned from his purpose.
“Kill in cold blood a man you never saw before?”
“Just so; I am not going to think of him, when I set so little store by myself; I only wish the fellow were here now, and I'd show you whether I'd falter or not.”
“Poor Chico,—I could weep for him!” said he, blubbering.
“Keep your pity for me,” said I,—“I, that am bound by this terrible oath, and must either stamp myself a coward or a murderer. As for Chico, I believe a more worthless wretch never existed,—a poor, mean-spirited creature, whose trade is to be a spy, and by whose cursed machinations many a fine fellow has been ruined.”
“You are all wrong, sir,” said the Padre, warmly. “I know the man myself; he is an amiable, kind-hearted being, that never harmed any one.”
“He's the fellow to die, then!” said I, roughly.
“He has a small family, unprovided for.”