"Go your way, sirs," the priest continued, "and do not trouble yourselves about what does not concern you."
"Come, come, señor padre," the first speaker went on, "surrender with a good grace: we should not like to fail in the respect due to you. Resistance is impossible—we are ten against you alone: besides, you are a man of peace."
"You are cowards!" the missionary shouted. "Retire! A truce to mockery, and let me continue my journey in peace."
"Not so, señor padre, unless you consent to leave us your two companions."
"Ah, ah! that is it? Well, then, we must fight, gentlemen. It seems to me that you are strangely mistaken about me. Yes, I am a missionary, a man of peace; but I am also a Frenchman, and you appear to have forgotten that. You must understand that I will not suffer the slightest insult to the persons, whoever they may be, whom Heaven has placed under my protection."
"And with what will you defend them, Mr. Frenchman?" the stranger asked with a grin.
"With these," the missionary coldly replied as he drew a brace of pistols from his holsters, and set the hammers with a resolute air.
The bandits hesitated involuntarily. The missionary's action was so clear, his voice so firm, his presence so intrepid, that they felt themselves tremble; for they understood that they had a brave-hearted man before them, who would sooner die than yield an inch. The Mexicans do not respect much; but we must do them the justice of saying that they have an unbounded reverence for the priest's gown. The missionary was not a man like some who may be unfortunately met with, especially among the clergy of North and South America. His reputation for virtue and goodness was immense along the whole Mexican frontier: it was a serious matter to insult him, much more to threaten him with death. Still the strangers had advanced too far to give way.
"Come, padre," the man who had hitherto been spokesman said, "do not attempt any useless resistance. At all risks we will carry off these women."
And he made a movement as if to advance.