“Still I say, take it, Felipe—must I say it? I love you!”
CHAPTER XI.
IN THE CAVE AND OUT OF IT.
As the Jarocho’s prisoner heard these words spoken by Garote Ventura, he approached, but with the hesitating step of one who doubts, while yet he hopes. The glow of the lamplight shone full upon him, and Ventura’s eyes quickly and keenly scrutinized his form and every feature.
In stature he was tall, unusually so, and although now greatly emaciated, had once been a robust and powerful man. The muscles of his arms and chest still stood out like bands of steel, showing plainly through the tatters that served him for clothes. Although his hair was thickly threaded with silver lines, his form was not yet bowed, nor the fire quenched in his large, keen black eyes.
The remnants of his former beauty could still be discerned—the proud, well-cut profile and noble features, although marred somewhat by grims and wrinkles, were yet plain enough for any one who had known him in better days, to be enabled to recognize him now.
“A friend, and if you are he whom I think, a rescuer,” Garote Ventura had said.
“The Virgin grant that I may be! But it can not be. A friend to me, and here? No, no, I was foolish to think so,” bitterly exclaimed the prisoner.
“Perhaps not,” added Ventura. “I think you are the one I seek, and if so, in an hour’s time you may be far from here, if you wish it.”
“If I wish it!” echoed the captive.
“Yes. But tell me who you are. Stop. If you are he whom I mean, you have committed fearful crimes. But you have reparation in your power; and if you perform it faithfully, I think I may promise that you can live in peace, to go whither you will,” he added, impressively.