“Ay! you have heard of him, no doubt; at least you would, had you been much among the mountains.”
“I have. The ruffian! the wholesale butcher of innocent—”
A dark waif danced against the wall: it was the shadow of a man. I looked up. Seguin was before me!
Saint Vrain on seeing him enter had turned away, and stood looking out of the window.
I was on the point of changing my tirade into the apostrophic form, and at the same time ordering the man out of my sight, when something in his look influenced me to remain silent. I could not tell whether he had heard or understood to whom my abusive epithets had been applied; but there was nothing in his manner that betrayed his having done so. I observed only the same look that had at first attracted me—the same expression of deep melancholy.
Could this man be the hardened and heartless villain I had heard of, the author of so many atrocities?
“Sir,” said he, seeing that I remained silent, “I deeply regret what has happened to you. I was the involuntary cause of your mishap. Is your wound a severe one?”
“It is not,” I replied, with a dryness of manner that seemed somewhat to disconcert him.
“I am glad of that,” he continued, after a pause. “I came to thank you for your generous interference. I leave Santa Fé in ten minutes. I must bid you farewell.”
He held forth his hand. I muttered the word “farewell,” but without offering to exchange the salutation. The stories of cruel atrocity connected with the name of this man came into my mind at the moment, and I felt a loathing for him. His arm remained in its outstretched position, while a strange expression began to steal over his countenance, as he saw that I hesitated.