“What say you, Ignatio?”
“I seek no man’s blood, but for our own safety it is well that these wretches should die. Away with them!”
Now Don Pedro began to bleat inarticulately in his terror, and that hero, José, burst into tears and pleaded for his life, writhing with pain the while, for the point of the sword scorched him.
“You are an English gentleman,” he groaned, “you cannot butcher a helpless man as though he were an ox.”
“As you tried to butcher us in the chamber yonder,—us, who saved your life,” answered the señor. “Still, you are right, I cannot do it because, as you say, I am a gentleman. Molas, loose this dog, and if he tries to run, put your knife through him. José Moreno, you have a sword by your side, and I hold one in my hand; I will not murder you, but we have a quarrel, and we will settle it here and now.”
“You are mad, señor,” I said, “to risk your life thus, I myself will kill him rather than it should be so.”
“Will you fight if I loose you, José Moreno?” he asked, making me no answer, “or will you be killed where you stand?”
“I will fight,” he replied.
“Good. Let him free, Molas, and be ready with your knife.”
“I command you,” I began, but already the man was loose and the señor stood waiting for him, his back to the door, and grasping the Indian machete handled with the golden woman.