"Pardon me," the monk interrupted, "such a determination on your part naturally surprises us."
"Why so?" the young man said, raising his head haughtily.
"Because," Fray Ambrosio answered tranquilly, "You are the son of Red Cedar, and it is at least I strange that—"
"Enough talking," Shaw exclaimed violently; "will you or not give me up her I have come to seek?"
"I must know, in the first place, what you intend doing with her.
"How does that concern you?"
"More than you imagine. Since that girl has been a prisoner I constituted myself—if not her guardian, for the dress I wear forbids that—her defender; in that quality I have the right of knowing for what reason you, the son of the man who tore her from her family, have come so audaciously to demand her surrender to you, and what your object is in acting thus?"
The young man had listened to those remarks with an impatience that became momentarily more visible; it could be seen that he made superhuman efforts to restrain himself. When the monk stopped, he looked at him for a moment with a strange expression, then walked up so close as almost to touch him, drew a pair of pistols from his girdle and pointed them at the monk.
"Surrender Doña Clara to me," he said, in a low and menacing voice.
Fray Ambrosio had attentively followed all the American's movements, and when the latter put the pistol muzzles to his chest, the monk, with an action rapid as lightning, also drew two pistols from his girdle, and placed them, on his adversary's chest. There was a moment of supreme expectation, of indescribable agony; the two men were motionless, face to face panting, each with his fingers on a trigger, pale, and their brows dank with cold perspiration. Andrés Garote, his lips curled by an ironical smile, and his arms crossed, carelessly leaned against a table, watching this scene which had for him all the attractions of a play.