"Then listen. I want to take this knife, this nice, sharp knife that I have been grinding for him. Ha! ha! Santa Maria, how sharp it is! And I will put this money, all this money, into your hands and you will turn away so as not to see. And I will take this knife in my hand so. And I will creep over toward that fellow——"
"And kill him?"
"Listen, Jose. You spoil it. He'll scream. He'll turn pale and tremble like the coward he is. But he can't get away, Jose, he can't get away! I've got him, Jose! And I'll unbutton his jacket, that hated Yankee uniform. And I'll take this knife and I'll put it right close to his soft, white skin. Then I will press down—down! And you'll hear him scream as it goes in; he'll twist about and shriek, but I will pin him to the floor. And then he will lie there, Jose, and we can watch him die. Ha, Madre di dios, how I hate him!"
The Spaniard's rage had been such that his face grew fairly purple. And he snatched up the knife and started forward toward the cadet.
"How I hate him!" he panted again.
What were the feelings of poor Clif may be imagined; he was perfectly helpless and could only lie still and gaze into the eyes of his deadly foe.
But there was some one else to stop Ignacio.
The sergeant caught him by the arm.
"So, no!" he cried. "Stop."
"What!" panted Ignacio. "Why?"