"Eh!?" the monk exclaimed, as he turned, with his leg still in the air.
"Come, come, Fray Ambrosio," Red Cedar continued in a jeering voice, "let us have a little more talk together. I will tell you, if you like, a very remarkable story about this Don Pedro, with whom you were acquainted."
The monk was livid; a nervous tremor agitated all his limbs; he let loose his mule's bridle, and followed the squatter mechanically, who seated himself tranquilly on the ground, making him a sign to follow his example. The monk fell, suppressing a sigh, and wiping away the drops of cold perspiration that beaded on his forehead.
"Eh, eh!" the squatter continued at the end of a moment, "we must allow that Don Pedro was a charming gentleman—a little wild, perhaps; but what would you have? He was young. I remember meeting him at Albany a long time ago—some sixteen or seventeen years ago—how old one gets!—at the house of one—wait awhile, the name has slipped my memory—could you not help me to it, Fray Ambrosio?"
"I do not know what you mean," the monk said in a hollow voice.
The man was in a state that would have produced pity; the veins in his forehead were swollen ready to burst; he was choking; his right hand clutched the hilt of his dagger; and he bent on the squatter a glance full of deadly hatred. The latter seemed to see nothing of all this.
"I have it!" he continued. "The man's name was Walter Brunnel, a very worthy gentleman."
"Demon!" the monk howled in a gasping voice, "I know not who made you master of that horrible secret, but you shall die."
And he rushed upon him, dagger in hand.
Red Cedar had known Fray Ambrosio a long time, and was on his guard. By a rapid movement he checked his arm, twisted it, and seized the dagger, which he threw a long distance off.