"Listen!" he cried. "Ha, ha!—and tremble."
Clif's blood rose at that blow, but he held himself back and watched and waited.
That was a moment of peril for the treacherous Spaniard; what would have been his terror may be imagined, had he known the victim into whose eyes he was glaring was clutching in one hand a sharp knife, ready at any instant to plunge it into him.
But the fellow had no idea of his peril; he was at the very height of his triumph and his dark, beady eyes gleamed ferociously out of the shadows of that damp and silent vault.
But he must have noticed that some of the color had come back into Clif's face.
"You are still defiant," he cried. "You still do not tremble. But wait—wait till you begin to feel what I have for you. Did you see those iron things I brought in? Ha, ha! There is one I will fasten about your forehead and draw it tight till your very brain bursts. And then will you like it? Hey? Will you turn pale then? Will you scream? Ha, ha!—and I shall dance around you and watch you. Will you be sorry you interfered with me then?"
Ignacio might have taunted his victim that way for hours, but he was too eager and impatient. He whirled about and sprang toward the door.
"Santa Maria!" he panted. "I will get it! I will begin! I must hear him yelling!"
And he snatched up something from the floor and taking the lantern in his other hand bounded back toward Clif.
"Are you ready?" he exclaimed. "Yankee pig, begin to scream!"