“What’s this? What do you want of me?” he exclaimed, trying vainly to disengage himself. “I’ll give you all the money I have.”
“Shut up,” said a gruff voice with a gipsy accent, “and come with us—Somebody wants to settle a little account with you.”
“With me! Nobody has any accounts to settle with me.”
“Be quiet, my friend, and let’s be going.”
“Very well; but take off the handkerchief; I’ll go wherever you tell me to.”
“It can’t be done.”
When Quentin found that he was overpowered, he felt the blood rush to his head with anger. He began to stumble along. When he had gone about twenty paces, he stopped.
“I said that I would go wherever he is.”
“No, Señor.”
Quentin settled himself firmly on his left leg, and with his right, kicked in the direction whence he had heard the voice. There was a dull thud as a body struck the ground.