“It is some anchorite whose brain is turned by solitude,” said Pedro Diaz; “I shall terminate the conference with a bullet from my rifle.”
“No!” cried Don Estevan, stopping him, “let us see first how far this folly will go. And which of us is it, friend,” continued he, with an ironical air, “to whom you wish to teach this law?”
“To you,” cried Fabian, rising.
“What! you here!” cried Don Estevan with mingled rage and surprise.
Fabian bowed.
“And here am I, who have been following you for the last fortnight,” said Pepé, “and who thanks God for the opportunity of paying off a debt of twenty years’ standing.”
“Who are you?” asked Don Estevan, trying to remember who it was, for years and difference of costume had altered the aspect of the old coast-guardsman.
“Pepé the Sleeper, who has not forgotten his residence at Ceuta.”
At this name, which explained Fabian’s words at the bridge of Salto de Agua, Don Estevan lost his air of contempt. A sudden presentiment seemed to warn him that his fortunes were waning, and he cast around him an anxious glance. The high rocks, which on one side shut in the valley, might protect him from the fire of his enemies; a short space only separated him from their foot, and prudence counselled him to fly there, but his pride forbade him.
“Well then!” cried he proudly after a pause, “revenge yourself on an enemy who disdains to fly.”