"He tried to kill me when he saw the boat approaching, and—and—"
"What then?"
"I ran him through the body."
"But where is he now?" continued Hislop. "Our work in rescuing you will be but half done if we leave him unhanged."
"He is lying wounded, dying, perhaps, on the beach. Oh, Hislop, it is horrible! For pity's sake, for heaven's sake, go some of you—behind those rocks," I added, incoherently, for in my joy at escaping, I felt it possible even to compassionate and forgive Antonio.
"Remain here," said Hislop, and leaping ashore, followed by Tom Lambourne, he went at once to the place I indicated.
I now looked at the boat's crew, eight in number and to my surprise found they were all Spaniards; bearded, mustachioed, and armed with sheath-knives in their sashes; some wore red nets on their heads, others red night-caps, and they might all have passed—especially those with earrings—for blood relations of the Cubano.
I had scarcely made this unpleasant discovery when Hislop and Lambourne appeared, half supporting and half dragging Antonio toward the boat, into the bow of which they thrust him with very little ceremony; and there he lay in a heap, as it were, with his eyes closed and his bare and hairy chest covered with blood and sand.
His right hand still clenched his Albacete* knife, the weapon with which he had committed so many crimes; so Hislop tore it from him, and cast it into the sea.
* Albacete is a town of Murcia, where the cutlers manufacture a great number of sheath-knives.