“I can’t see him.”
“I think I can.”
“Let’s go to the mill at El Medio,” said one who appeared to be the leader. “There ought to be a boat there. Watchman, you stay here.”
Quentin heard this conversation, trembling in his hole; he listened to their footsteps, and when they grew fainter in the distance, he got up and looked through a narrow loophole that was cut in the niche. The watchman had placed his lamp upon the railing of the bridge, and was looking into the river.
“I have no time to lose,” murmured Quentin.
Quickly he took off his tie and his kerchief, jumped to the bridge without making the slightest noise, and crept toward the watchman. Simultaneously one hand fell upon the watcher’s neck, and the other upon his mouth.
“If you call out, I’ll throw you into the river,” said Quentin in a low voice.
The man scarcely breathed from fright. Quentin gagged him with the handkerchief, then tied his hands behind him, took off his cap, placed his own hat upon the watchman’s head, and carrying him like a baby, thrust him into the niche.
“If you try to get out of there, you’re a dead man,” said Quentin.
This done, he put on the watchman’s hat, seized his pike and lantern, and walked slowly toward the bridge gate.