“You do not like me?” he asked, getting closer to her. “Many women have. You are not to be spoiled being the prize of some great man, but a kiss will not spoil you. Never have I kissed a wench with proud blood in her veins. It will be something to remember and boast about!”
Now she crouched against the wall, her heart pounding at her ribs, her breath coming in little gasps. Her eyes were dilated with terror.
“Out!” she said, though her fear reduced her screech to a mere whisper. “Your master shall know of this!”
That sobered him for a moment, but the picture of her pretty self was before him, tantalizing him, tormenting him. He reached out a hand to clutch her. She could retreat no further. She put up her tiny hands as though to beat him back.
“What is a kiss?” he asked, laughing. “I would not harm you—only a kiss!”
“I would rather die!” she gasped.
“For that I shall take two—a dozen! Proud wench, are you? Ha!”
He grasped her wrist and started pulling her toward him. She lurched backward, fought with what strength she could, felt that she was about to swoon, and realized that she must not. He followed her, reached out the other hand to grasp her better.
And like the darting of a snake’s tongue came the sword of Zorro through the crack in the wall. In and out it darted with the swiftness of thought. The señorita, reeling back against the wall, felt herself released, saw the pirate sag before her, to his knees, topple forward, and collapse at her feet.
Terror-stricken, she looked down at him, her eyes bulging wide. Blood flowed from his breast and formed a pool on the floor of the cabin. A hiss from the other side of the partition brought her to her senses. She realized, then, that Zorro’s blade had done this thing to save her an indignity.