"It's no for me, sir, to—— But it's just a temptin' o' Providence to be—"
"Hush! 'tis only the barking of dogs. Tread softly, and keep close under the darkest shadows of the foliage."
"There is a man yonder, senor,—evidently a sentinel," whispered Pedro in a low voice.
"Where?" asked Ronald, as they halted.
"About thirty paces off."
"Under the dark tree?"
"Ay, senor,—the moon shines full upon him."
"Keep close in the gloom: he sees us now, I think."
The figure of a man armed with a long musquet appeared clearly, as the bright radiance of the moon streamed down the narrow path, glittering on the butts of his pistols and hilt of the poniard stuck in the worsted sash which was twisted round his waist. He wore a long slouched cap, which hung down his back, and various tassels, ribbons, and gewgaws of gold lace that adorned his short velvet jacket glimmered in the moonlight.
"Quien vive?" challenged he, like a Spanish sentinel, while he stooped his ear towards the ground, listening intensely for a few seconds. He appeared to have heard something. It was Evan's feet rustling among the last year's leaves. The robber stood erect, and cocked his musquet while he looked forward into the gloom, a passing cloud having obscured the face of the moon.