Escobeda had stooped towards the girl with hand outstretched, but she had sprung to her feet in a moment, and stood at bay, the dagger held, not in a threatening attitude, but so that it could be turned towards the man at any moment.
"It is my mother's dagger, uncle."
"What are you doing with it?"
"Polishing it for my journey, uncle."
"Give it to me."
"Why should I give it to you, uncle?"
"Because I tell you to."
Raquel's hair had fallen down; she was scantily clothed. Her cheeks were ablaze. She looked like a tigress brought to bay.
"Do you remember my mother, uncle?"
"I remember your mother; what of her?"