“If,” answered the other, and with emphatic pronunciation,—“if you tell me where you have hidden Dolores.”
There was a groan; and then in a quivering voice came the rejoinder.
“How could that affect my recovery? If I am to die, it could not save me. If it be my fate to survive this sad day—”
“It is not,” interrupted the salteador, in a firm, loud voice. “No! This day you must die—this hour—this moment, unless you reveal to me that secret you have so carefully kept. Where is Dolores?”
“Never! Rather shall I die than that she should fall into the power of such a remorseless villain. After that threat, O God!—”
“Die, then! and go to the God you are calling upon. Die, Calros Vergara—!”
During the latter part of this singular dialogue, I had been worming myself through the devious alleys of the thicket, and gradually drawing nearer to the speakers. Just as the “Die, then!” reached my ears, I caught sight of the man who had pronounced the terrible menace—as well as of him to whom it was addressed.
Both were upon the other side of the little opening into which I had entered, the latter lying prostrate upon the grass; the former bending over him, with right arm upraised, and a long blade glittering in his grasp.
At the sight my sword leaped from its sheath, and I was about to rush forward; when, on calculating the distance across the glade, I perceived I should be too late.