Quick as the thought I changed my weapon, dropping the sword at my feet, and drawing my revolver from its holster in my belt.
To cock the pistol, take aim, and pull the trigger, were three actions in one, the result being a crack, a flash, a cloud of smoke, a cry of commingled rage and pain; and succeeding to these sounds, a loud breaking among the bushes on the opposite side of the opening, as if some individual was making his way through the thicket, without staying to seek for a path, and with no other thought than to put space between himself and the form still recumbent upon the sward!
The latter I knew to be Carlos, or Calros, in the patois of his con-paisano. The fugitive was the salteador so lately threatening his life.
Had the murderer succeeded in his design? I saw his blade brandished aloft, as I drew my pistol from its holster. I had not seen the downward thrust; but, for all that, it might have been made.
With a heart brimful of anxiety, I ran across the glade. I say brimful of anxiety: for something, I could not tell what, had excited my sympathy for Calros Vergara.
Partly may it have been from hearing that speech off sombre but significant import,—“Soy moriendo! Lola!—Lolita! a ver te nunca mas en este mundo!” and partly from admiration for a noble nature, that preferred even death to the disclosing of some secret, which might compromise the welfare of his beloved Dolores.
I thought no more of the robber, or his efforts to escape. My whole attention became devoted to the man whom he had marked out for his victim; and I made all haste to ascertain whether I had been successful in hindering his fell intent.
In a score of seconds I was standing by the side of the prostrate Jarocho, bending over his body. I held the pistol in my hand, my finger still pressing upon the trigger, just as after firing the shot that had disembarrassed him of his enemy.
“Are you safe?” I inquired, in the best Mexican-Spanish I could command. “He has not succeeded in—?”
“Strike, villain! through my heart, if you will. Ah! Dolores! Better my death, and yours—better far be in your grave than in the embrace of Ramon Rayas! O Santissima Madre!—I die—I die! Mother of God protect—Lola!—Lolita! quer-i-da herm...”