The apartment was small. In one corner stood a French bed, having light-coloured curtains; this, with a basin-stand, two chairs and a mirror, made up the furniture. Like a true soldier, I turned to secure the door.
Destitute of lock or bolt: it had only a small thumb-latch!
Dismounting the ewer and basin, I placed the stand end-wise between the bed and the door, firmly fixing it, and thus forming a barricade, which none could force without awaking me. To make all sure, I again dropped the ramrod into each barrel of my rifle, passed a finger over the caps, unbuckled the belt at which my dirk dangled; and, without undressing, for every moment I expected to hear Jack Hall hallooing outside the house; in short, to be prepared for anything, I threw myself down on the coverlet, and weary and worn by a long day's ramble among the mountains, prepared to sleep.
For a long time a species of painful wakefulness possessed me; the moans of the passing wind, the flapping of a loose board in the external gallery, the wavering shadows thrown by the moonlight on the damp and discoloured walls; even the ticking of my watch disturbed me, and kept me constantly thinking of poor Hall's unaccountable absence, with many a fear that he might have fallen into the hands of Juan of Antequera, and not a few reproaches for my having perhaps too easily relinquished my search for him.
These thoughts completely obliterated any sense of my own immediate danger; but I was about to drop asleep when something moist that oozed over my neck and face aroused me. I started, fully awake in a moment; and, passing a hand across my cheek, looked at it in the moonlight.
"Blood!" said I, springing off the bed, while a thrill ran through me. I had not been wounded or cut by my fall; then from whence came this terrible moisture? I examined the pillow, and found the lower part of it quite wet; I turned it, and lo! it was saturated with blood!
This was the reason, that Martin Secco had declined to give me a candle. My heart beat thick and fast; apprehension of something horrible came over me, and I remembered the stories of Pedrillo. I also recollected that I had some excellent Spanish cigar fusees, and tearing three or four blank leaves from my note book, I twisted them together, lit them, and surveyed the dingy chamber. The boards in front of the bed were marked by recent spots of blood; I raised the little fringe or curtain, and, guided by some terrible instinct, looked below, and saw—what?
Poor Jack Hall lying there in his naval uniform, with his epaulette torn off, and his throat literally cut from ear to ear!
He had found his way here before me, and been assassinated.
Almost paralysed, I continued for half a minute to gaze at this terrible spectacle, till the paper burned down to my fingers and expired. I heard my heart beating; and my head spun round as I tightened my belt and grasped my loaded rifle. Before I could adopt any plan of operations, I heard a rustling and whispering in the passage near my door; and, looking through a crack in the panels, saw, within a yard of me, Martin Secco, bearing in one hand the rifle of my poor friend, and in the other a lighted candle, although he had made to me so many apologies, about two hours before, for not having another in the house. As he approached, he handed it to a boy, in whom I discovered Pedrillo; and then the light flashed upon two other men, in one of whom I recognised the ostler, and in the other, our acquaintance of the noon, with the patch on his face, and wearing the green velvet jacket and sombrero. This worthy had a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. The patrona was also there, with her wolfish eyes and enormous Basque queue.