"Oh, you shall come, you villain!" Valentine's voice was heard outside. "You shall not escape me this time. Come, walk in, or I'll quicken your motions with my dagger."
And with a vigorous effort the hunter entered the room, dragging after him a man who made futile efforts to escape.
"Shut the door, Louis," Valentine continued. "And now, my worthy spy, show me your treacherous face, that I may be able to recognise you again."
Curumilla had left the corner in which he had hitherto been sleeping. Without uttering a syllable he drew Doña Angela behind a mosquito net, which completely concealed her, and then rejoined his friends, candle in hand. All this while the prisoner offered an obstinate resistance to prevent his features being seen; but he did not say a word, contenting himself with uttering hoarse and indistinct exclamations of rage. At length, after a long struggle, the stranger seemed to comprehend that all his efforts would be in vain: he drew himself up, took off his cloak, and crossed his arms on his chest.
"Well, look at me, as you insist on doing so," he said with a sarcastic accent.
"Don Cornelio!" the Frenchmen exclaimed.
"Myself, gentlemen. How have you been since I last had the pleasure of seeing you?" he continued with serpent coolness.
"Miserable traitor!" Valentine yelled as he rushed on him.
But the count checked him.
"Wait," he said.