“Valga me Dios! I am content,” said the latter, fetching a deep breath, and setting his teeth. “I will keep my weapon.”
“Muy buen,” returned the American. “So now let us take our ground: that is, if you are quite ready?”
Accordingly they selected their stations, facing respectively about north and south, with the planet of love between them, as it were. “Oblige me by giving the word, senor,” said Freeman, cocking his weapon.
But Don Miguel was staring with perturbed visage at something behind his antagonist. “Santa Maria!” he faltered, “what is yonder? It is a spirit!”
Freeman had his wits about him, and perhaps entertained a not too high opinion of Mexican fair play. So, before turning round, he advanced till he was alongside his companion. Then he looked, and saw something which was certainly enigmatic.
Among the wild-mustard plants there appeared a moving luminosity, having an irregular, dancing motion, as of a will-o’-the-wisp singularly agitated. Sometimes it uplifted itself on high, then plunged downwards, and again jerked itself from side to side; occasionally it would quite vanish for an instant. Accompanying this manifestation there was a clawing and reaching of shadowy arms: altogether, it was as if some titanic spectral grasshopper, with a heart of fire, were writhing and kicking in convulsions of phantom agony. Such an apparition, in an hour and a place so lonely, might stagger a less superstitious soul than that of Don Miguel de Mendoza.
Freeman gazed at it for a moment in silence. It mystified him, and then irritated him. When one is bent heart and soul upon an important enterprise, any interruption is an annoyance. Perhaps there was in the young American’s nature just enough remains of belief in witches and hobgoblins to make him feel warranted in resorting to extreme measures. At any rate, he lifted his revolver, and fired.
It was a long shot for a revolver: nevertheless it took effect. The luminous object disappeared with a faint explosive sound, followed by a shout unmistakably human. The long stems of the wild mustard swayed and parted, and out sprang a figure, which ran straight towards the two young men.
Hereupon, Don Miguel, hissing out an appeal to the Virgin and the saints, turned and fled.
Meanwhile, the mysterious figure continued its onward career; and Freeman once more levelled his weapon,—when a voice, which gave him such a start of surprise as well-nigh caused him to pull the trigger for sheer lack of self-command, called out, “Why, you abominable young villain! What the mischief do you mean? Do you want to be hanged?”