"Ah, ah!" mocked the old man, "so Fatia Negra is afraid of you, eh?"—and with that he swung himself back into his saddle with youth-like agility. "Black Face fears nobody, I tell you. He is not even afraid of the commandant of Gyulafehervár, nor of the lord-lieutenant of Krasna, and they have no end of soldiers and heydukes. Nay, he fears not the devil himself."
And with that he urged on his horse which ambled forward meditatively, whilst the girl's little nag whinnied in the rear.
"He may not fear the great gentlemen, he may not fear the devil, but I tell you that he would be afraid of the girl he made to love him, if he proved false to her."
"So you really think he loves you violently?" said the old man casting a backward glance at her.
"He swore he did."
"To whom? the priest?"
"Go along with you! No, to me!"
At this the old man chuckled—"little fool!" said he.
"And if he breaks his oath now, the devil shall have him. I'll murder him."
"Very well, I suppose you know him. Yet you have never seen his face. If he were to tear the black velvet mask from his face you would never recognize him."