"On her knees she bent before Julian d'Aviero, imploring him to spare her only brother, and to slay her, if he pleased; but her piteous cries and supplications, rendered yet more plaintive by the beautiful language of Spain, were drowned by the brutal jests, and whoops, and yells of the Portuguese robbers.
"When the hubbub subsided, 'Señor Cantarero,' said Don Julian, in his wonted cold and sarcastic manner, 'I have said that your ransoms are refused.'
"'And what then, Señor Ladrone?' asked the paisano sternly.
"You must die—that is all," replied the captain, quietly knocking the ashes from his fragrant cuba.
"'Die!'
"'Si, morir, Micer Perez el Cantarero,' said he, with an ironical bow.
"''T is hard to die thus, and unrevenged,' said the peasant, looking round as if for a weapon; 'but I am content, so that you release my sister, and swear upon the crucifix that she shall receive no harm.'
"At this demand there was another horrid laugh; and the Jew, turning up his eyes, swore something in Hebrew at a request so unreasonable.
"'Keep your mind quite at ease, Perez, amigo mio,' said Julian d'Aviero, whose potations were now affecting his brain, and imparting to his manner a strange mixture of ferocity and jocose cruelty—'do not be alarmed; your sister shall not die. Maladetto! dost think we have no taste or discrimination?'
"'The Holy Virgin thank you!' said the potter, with an odd mixture of fervour and ferocity; 'my dearest Teresa, will——'