And suddenly, Simon having shown his head, two bullets fired by the two Indians ricochetted from the nearest stone surface, detaching a few splinters.
"Oh, please don't be so imprudent!" Dolores implored.
A drop of blood trickled down his forehead. She staunched it gently with her handkerchief and murmured:
"You see, Simon, those men will get the better of us. And you still refuse to leave me? You risk your life, though nothing can affect the issue?"
He pushed her away from him:
"My life is not at stake. . . . Nor yours either. . . . This handful of wretches will never get at us."
He was mistaken. Some of the vagabonds were within eighty yards of them. They could hear them talking together; and the men's hard faces, covered with grey stubble, shot up from behind their bucklers like the head of a Jack-in-the-box.
Forsetta was shouting his orders:
"Forward! . . . There's no danger! . . . They've no ammunition! . . . Forward, I tell you! The Frenchman's pockets are stuffed with notes!"
The seven tramps ran forward as one man. Simon levelled his revolver briskly and fired. They stopped. No one was hit. Forsetta was triumphant: