“Conshence!” exclaimed Rock, interrupting. “Sech a skunk don’t know the meanin’ o’ the word. Darn ye!” he continued, turning upon his prisoner, and shaking him till the links in the steel shirt chinked, “I feel as if I ked drive the blade o’ my bowie inter ye through them steel fixin’s an’ all.”
And, drawing his knife from its sheath, he brandished it in a menacing manner.
“Don’t, Rock! Please don’t!” interposed the Kentuckian, Kearney joining in the entreaty. “He’s not worth anger, much less revenge. So let him go.”
“You’re right thar, lootenant,” rejoined Rock. “He ain’t worth eyther, that’s the truth. An’ ’twould only be puttin’ pisen on the blade o’ my knife to smear it wi’ his black blood. F’r all, I ain’t a-gwine to let him off so easy’s all that, unless you an’ the captain insists on it. After the warmish work he’s had, an’ the sweat he’s put himself in by the wearin’ o’ two shirts at a time, I guess he won’t be any the worse of a sprinkling o’ cold water. So here goes to gie it him.”
Saying which, he strode off towards the ditch, half-dragging, half-carrying Santander along with him.
The cowed and craven creature neither made resistance, nor dared. Had he done so, the upshot was obvious. For the Texan’s blade, still bared, was shining before his eyes, and he knew that any attempt on his part, either to oppose the latter’s intention or escape, would result in having it buried between, his ribs. So, silently, sullenly, he allowed himself to be taken along, not as a lamb to the slaughter, but a wolf, or rather dog, about to be chastised for some malfeasance.
In an instant after, the chastisement was administered by the Texan laying hold of him with both hands, lifting him from off his feet, and then dropping him down into the water-ditch, where, weighted with the steel shirt, he fell with a dead, heavy plunge, going at once to the bottom.
“That’s less than your desarvin’s,” said the Texan, on thus delivering his charge. “An’ if it had been left to Cris Rock ’twould ’a been up, ’stead o’ down, he’d ’a sent ye. If iver man desarved hangin’, you’re the model o’ him. Ha—ha—ha! Look at the skunk now!”
The last words, with the laugh preceding them, were elicited by the ludicrous appearance which Santander presented. He had come to the surface again, and, with some difficulty, owing to the encumbrance of his under-shirt, clambered out upon the bank. But not as when he went under. Instead, with what appeared a green cloak over his shoulders, the scum of the stagnant water long collecting undisturbed. The hackney-driver—there was but one now, the other taken off by Duperon, who had hired him, their doctor too—joined with Rock in his laughter, while Kearney, Crittenden, and their own surgeon could not help uniting in the chorus. Never had tragic hero suffered a more comical discomfiture.
He was now permitted to withdraw from the scene of it, a permission of which he availed himself without further delay; first retreating for some distance along the Shell Road, as one wandering and distraught; then, as if seized by a sudden thought, diving into the timbered swamp alongside, and there disappearing.