I felt the awkwardness of the situation. Appearances were against me. Some explanation must be given.
Stepping nearer, I bent down by the side of the young girl; and as soon as her silence gave me an opportunity of being heard, repeated my asseveration.
“It is not his blood,” I said, “but that of another. Your friend has received no wound—at least none lately given, and least of all by me. His death—if he be dead—has been caused by this.”
I pointed to the dark spot on his thigh.
“It is a bullet wound received in the battle.”
“The blood upon his bosom—his cheeks—you see—’tis fresh?”
“I repeat it is not his. I speak truly.”
My earnest utterance seemed to make an impression upon her.
“Whose then? whose blood?” she cried out.
“That of a man who was in the act of killing Calros, when my pistol frustrated his intent. I fear after all he may have been successful, though not exactly according to his design. He intended to have stabbed the wounded man with his macheté.”