And, as she spoke, she reeled and would have fallen had I not caught her in my arms.
CHAPTER XXVII.
"LIAR, I WILL KILL YOU!"
He had been left behind--and I was here! He whose escape had been arranged for was still a prisoner--I, whose doom had been fixed, was free.
What did it mean? What mystery had taken place?
One glance toward the fonda fifty yards away was sufficient to show that mystery there was--as unintelligible to another as to Juana. And more than mystery!--that my presence here was as hateful as unexpected, to one person at least. To Morales, the Alcáide!
For even as my love recovered sufficiently to be able to stand without my assistance, though still leaning heavily upon me, I--looking toward that fonda--saw Morales issuing rapidly from it, his sword carried in his left hand, his right hand plucking the blade from the scabbard. And--more ominous still of what his intentions were, as well as of his fury!--as he ran toward us he flung the now empty sheath away from him and rushed forward, the bare blade gleaming.
Then as he reached the spot where we both stood together, the mute behind us--while, even as I too plucked the sword the poor creature had furnished me with from its scabbard and stood upon my guard, I saw that his stolid face expressed not only fear but something else--astonishment!--Morales shouted, his words tumbling pell mell over each other so much as to be difficult of understanding.
"Wretches! Traitor! Traitress! 'Tis thus I am deceived--hoodwinked! Tricked and ruined so that your lover may be restored to your false arms. So be it--thus, also, I avenge myself," and--horror!--he made a pass at Juana as she stood by my side. He was a Spaniard--and his love had turned to hate and gall!
Yet ere the shriek she uttered had ceased to ring on the wintry morning air, the deadly thrust that was aimed full at her breast was parried by my own blade; putting her behind me with my left hand, I struck full at him, resolved that ere another five minutes were over his own life should pay for that craven attempt; struck full at his own breast, missing it only by an inch, yet driving him back from me.