“That’s it, no doubt,” says Velarde, otherwise Don Manuel Diaz. “But those rough fellows along with them don’t appear to be men-of-war’s men, nor sailors of any kind. More like gold-diggers, I should say; such as crowd the streets of San Francisco. They must have come thence.”
“It matters not what they are, or where from. Enough that they’re here, and we in their power.”
At this Diaz and Padilla, now known as Rafael Rocas, step towards the cliff’s edge to have a look below, leaving the other two by the staff.
“What do you suppose they’ll do to us?” asks Calderon of De Lara. “Do you think they’ll—”
“Shoot, or hang us?” interrupts De Lara; “that’s what you’d say. I don’t think anything about it. I’m sure of it. One or other they’ll do, to a certainty.”
“Santissima!” piteously exclaims the ex-ganadero. “Is there no chance of escaping?”
“None whatever. No use our trying to get away from them. There’s nowhere we could conceal ourselves; not a spot to give us shelter for a single hour. For my part, I don’t intend to stir from this spot. I may as well be taken here as anywhere else. Carramba, no!” he exclaims, as if something has occurred to make him change his mind. “I shall go below, and meet my death like a man. No; like a tiger. Before dying, I shall kill. Are you good to do the same? Are you game for it?”
“I don’t comprehend you,” answers Calderon. “Kill what, or whom?”
“Whomsoever I can. Two for certain.”
“Which two?”