“Do not ask to share his fate,” said Pepé; “that man’s days are numbered.”
“Whatever his fate is to be, I wish to share it,” cried Diaz, vainly trying to free himself. “I accept from you neither quarter nor mercy.”
“Do not play with our anger!” said Pepé, whose passions were roused; “I am not in the habit of offering mercy twice.”
“I know how to make him accept it,” said Fabian, picking up the fallen knife. “Let him go, Pepé; with a man like Diaz, one can always come to terms.”
Fabian’s tone was so firm, that Pepé opened his arms and loosened the iron grasp in which the Mexican was bound.
“Here, Diaz,” said Fabian, “take your weapon, and listen to me.”
So saying, Fabian advanced and offered him his knife without any attempt at guarding himself. Diaz took the weapon, but his adversary had not presumed too far; at the heroic simplicity of Fabian his anger vanished on the instant.
“I listen,” said he, flinging his knife to the ground.
“I knew it would be so,” replied Fabian, with a smile. “You interposed unknowingly between crime and the just vengeance which pursued it. Do you know who is the man for whom you wish to expose your life? and who are those who have spared it? Do you know whether or not we have the right to demand from him, whom you doubtless know only as Don Estevan, a terrible account of the past? Reply honestly to the questions that I shall put to you, and then decide on which side justice lies.”
Astonished at these words, Diaz listened in silence, and Fabian went on: