"I shall not."
"Maladita!" said the Spaniard, grinding his teeth, and clutching the throat of the fallen man.
"Release him, I say," demanded Quentin, resolutely.
"Vaya usted con cien mill demonios," (Begone, with a hundred thousand devils), said the Spaniard, absolutely, gnashing his strong white teeth, which glistened beneath his black moustache.
"Oh, sauvez moi, mon camarade," implored the poor Frenchman.
"Thus, then, die—die en el santo nombre de Dios!"
With this impious shout, the furious guerilla, or whatever he was, raised the dagger which he had lowered for a moment; but ere it could descend; Quentin, with lightning speed, snatched up the heavy cajado which lay at his feet, and, loth to use a more deadly weapon against a Spaniard, struck the guerilla a blow on the head and rolled him over. A heavy malediction escaped him, and then he lay motionless and still, completely stunned.
Breathless with his recent struggle and its terrors, the French officer lost no time in springing to his feet.
"A thousand thanks to you, monsieur! But for you—there—there had been a vacancy in my troop to-night. But here—come this way; we have not a moment to lose, for the hills are full of these guerillas. Peste! they are as thick as bees hereabout; and believe me, the men of Baltasar de Saldos are not to be trifled with."
As the Frenchman spoke, he seized Quentin by the sleeve, and half led, half dragged him through the grove of pines; after which, they ran down hill for more than a mile, till they reached the main-road that led directly to Valencia the lesser, when Quentin paused, and began to reflect that he was going very oddly about the deliverance of Sir John Hope's despatch, a document that probably announced the day on which the entire army would break up from its cantonments and advance into Spain!