“How dare you intrude, sir?—how dare—”
“Not so loud, colonel!—not so loud—you will be heard!”
The low husky voice, and the firm tone of command, in which they were uttered, terrified the cowardly wretch to whom these words were addressed. He saw that the man who stood before him bore in his face and attitude the expression of desperate and irresistible resolve, that plainly said, “Disobey, and you are a dead man!” This expression was heightened by the gleaming blade of a long knife, whose haft was firmly grasped by the hand of the cibolero.
At sight of those demonstrations, Vizcarra turned white with terror. He now comprehended what was meant. The asking for the troop had been but a subterfuge to get near his own person! The cibolero had tracked him; his guilt was known, and the brother was now come to demand redress or have vengeance! The horrors of his night-dream returned, now mingling with the horrors of the fearful reality before him.
He scarce knew what to say—he could scarce speak. He looked wildly around in hopes of seeing some help. Not a face or form was in sight—nothing but the grey walls, and before him the frowning face of his terrible antagonist. He would have called for help; but that face—that angry attitude—told him that the shout would be his last. He gasped out at length—
“What want you?”
“I want my sister!”
“Your sister?”
“My sister!”
“Carlos—I know not—she is not here—I—”