A hoarse cry escaped the girl's parched lips:
"You are mad, mad, Vagualame!... Pity!... Pity!"
In a voice so hard, so biting, that the words seemed arrows piercing her quivering flesh, the bandit addressed his victim:
"Bobinette, you deceive yourself strangely! I am not of those to whom one cries for pity!... I know not the word, nor such weakness. I have never had it, and never shall have it for any living soul."
The bandit paused. Then, in a tone of rising anger, he continued:
"And you think me mad? But what sort of woman are you, Bobinette, to try and deceive me? What madness is yours to think, to imagine you can dupe me?... To confess that with such words and speeches as your feminine mind can think of you are going to ensnare me, make me alter my decision, turn me from my vengeance—that you should decide how I shall act—I?... I?... Vagualame?"
The bandit pronounced "I?" with such an accent of authority, with such terrific pride, that Bobinette, with a sound as though the death rattle were in her throat, cried:
"Vagualame! Who are you? Tell me!... Tell me!"...
"You ask me who I am?... You wish to know?... It be according to your wish!... Who am I?... Look!"...
Slowly, with a movement firm and dignified, Vagualame unfolded the long cloak which enveloped him. He tore off his hat and flung it at his feet. With arms crossed he apostrophied Bobinette: