“Here is the knife. You can release your own ankles and those of your comrades. This paper will direct you further. You will find the lamp inside.”
A knife, with a folded and strangely shining note, was passed through by the speaker.
“And now, Capitan—one favour,” continued the voice, in a trembling tone.
“Ask it! ask it!”
“I would kiss your hand before we part.”
“Dear, noble boy!” cried I, thrusting my hand into the aperture.
“Boy! ah, true—you think me a boy. I am no boy, Capitan, but a woman—one who loves you with all her blighted, broken heart!”
“Oh, heavens! It is, then—dearest Guadalupe!”
“Ha! I thought as much. Now I will not. But no; what good would it be to me? No—no—no! I shall keep my word.”
This appeared to be uttered in soliloquy, and the tumult of my thoughts prevented me from noticing the strangeness of these expressions. I thought of them afterwards.