He backed slowly toward the small tower and felt blindly for the rope. But now the huge figure blotted out the moon as it moved toward him. Fearfully he watched the shadow glide across the paving, inching nearer, a stone at a time. Then he noticed the wind blowing through his hair, tousling it across his face, and he would have pushed it back save he was unable to move. He could taste his own fear now, like a small copper tlaco in his mouth.
The man was raising his sword. Where was the rope! Mother of God!
"Nao." The woman had seized the negro's arm, was pulling him back. Hipolito could almost decipher her Portuguese as she continued, "Suficiente. No more killing."
Hipolito stepped away from the bell tower. "Senor, por favor ..."
The man had paused, trying to shake aside the woman. Then he said something, like a hard curse.
Hipolito felt his knees turn to warm butter and he dropped
forward, across the stones. He was crying now, his body shivering from the hard, cold paving against his face.
"Just tie him." The woman's voice came again. "He is only a boy."
The man's voice responded, in the strange language, and Hipolito thought he could feel the sword against his neck. He had always imagined he would someday die proudly, would honor Elvita by his courage, and now here he was, cringing on his belly. They would find him like this. The men in the vineyards would joke he had groveled before the Protestant ladrones like a dog.
"I will stay and watch him, and this place. Leave me two muskets." The woman spoke once more, then called out in Ingles. There were more footsteps on the stairs as the other men clambered up.