Nor did I feel in a particularly jovial mood just then, with anxiety for Hildegarde hanging like a millstone around my neck.
“I’ll do it,” said Robbins, vehemently, after the manner of an impulsive man who has swept all obstacles aside.
“Eureka! let her go!” I shouted, and immediately resumed my Pawnee war dance around the combing of the wall in order to convince all bold spirits below what a dangerous thing it would be for any among them to attempt the raid.
Now, I was in the blackest state of ignorance concerning my comrade’s intentions—I knew not whether he expected to blow up the hacienda, together with all in it, or, conjuring a balloon from space, carry the three of us to a place of safety.
All the same, when he declared he would “do it,” I believed him, such was the implicit confidence I placed in the man.
Besides, something had seemed to tell me all along that Robbins had a card up his sleeve which he was loath to play except the game reached a desperate stage.
My curiosity was naturally awakened, for I felt desirous of learning just how far Robbins might have dabbled in the black arts, and what manner of magician he would prove.
Never wizard who brought about more astonishing results.
I saw him run the gamut of the line, whacking away at one or two imaginary heads in order to let those below know he was on duty.
This little promenade brought him slap up against the small tower where the alcalde’s alarm bell hung, the same that had two nights previous thrilled us with its clamorous harangue.