There was something short, determined, and even stern, in the man's manner, not certainly well calculated to conciliate undoubting confidence.
"What is it you fear?" he said impatiently. "To whom, think ye, is your life of such consequence, that they should seek to bereave ye of it?"
"I fear nothing," I replied firmly, though somewhat hastily. "Walk on—I attend you."
We proceeded, contrary to my expectation, to re-enter the town, and glided like mute spectres, side by side, up its empty and silent streets. The high and gloomy stone fronts, with the variegated ornaments and pediments of the windows, looked yet taller and more sable by the imperfect moonshine. Our walk was for some minutes in perfect silence. At length my conductor spoke.
"Are you afraid?"
"I retort your own words," I replied: "wherefore should I fear?"
"Because you are with a stranger—perhaps an enemy, in a place where you have no friends and many enemies."
"I neither fear you nor them; I am young, active, and armed."
"I am not armed," replied my conductor: "but no matter, a willing hand never lacked weapon. You say you fear nothing; but if you knew who was by your side, perhaps you might underlie a tremor."
"And why should I?" replied I. "I again repeat, I fear nought that you can do."