Saying this, he receded from the parapet—as I supposed, still staying on the azotea.
The white shield was drawn back along with him: and once more Mercedes was out of sight—leaving me to fell fancies, more torturing than the sting of the tarantula.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
The Swing Bridge.
I stood for some time chafing, irresolute.
There seemed no help for it, but complying with the brigand’s request. The log cabin could not be successfully stormed without a fearful sacrifice of the lives of my men—which I was unwilling to make.
Not but that they were willing—one and all of them. Stung by the insulting tone of the robber-chief, they were ready to rush forward, defiant of death, and die in the act of obtaining vengeance.
The vile threat still ringing in their ears alone restrained them—as it did myself. No one doubted that the monster meant what he had said; and we knew that, if driven to desperation, he would carry out his atrocious design.