All this was said without that Andalucian boastfulness, so grotesquely exaggerated in these days, but with the naturalness of conviction, and the serenity of one who states a simple truth.
"What do I care for Diego and his band?" exclaimed Perico, not with bravado, but with the most profound dejection.
As with failing voice he pronounced these words, he tottered and leaned his head upon his gun.
"What has taken you? What is the matter?" asked the stranger, noticing his weakness.
Perico did not reply, for so great was his exhaustion and such the effect of his recent emotions that he fell down senseless.
The unknown knelt down beside him and lifted his head. The moon shone full upon that face, beautiful notwithstanding its mortal paleness, and the traces of passion, anguish, and grief which marred it.
"He is dead," said the stranger to himself, placing his rough hand upon Perico's heart. The heart which, a few days before, was as pure as the sky of May. "No," he continued, "he is not dead, but will die here, like a dog, if he is not taken care of."
And he looked at him again, for he felt awakening in his heart that noble attraction which draws the strong toward the weak, the powerful toward the helpless; for let skeptics say what they will, there is a spark of divinity in the breast of every human creature. He rose to his feet and whistled.
He is answered by the sound of a brisk gallop, and a beautiful young horse, with arched neck and rolling mane, comes up and stops before his master, turning his fine head and brilliant eyes as if to offer him the stirrup.