“He fired at me point-blank,” I said, “although I was unarmed.”
“What shall we do with him, little mother?” cried the excited crowd of burly malefactors, dragging the man before the notorious woman, with pleasant countenance, sonorous voice, and lively manners, whom they acknowledged as leader.
“Tie him up to yonder tree and let him be shot,” answered Sonia, pointing out a lofty pine. “Pick a marksman from among yourselves, and do not shout so loudly. Only one shot must be fired, for I believe the guards are lurking about to-night, and more may attract them.”
With yells of execration the crowd hurried away the unfortunate wretch who had so treacherously treated the friend of their leader, and ere a couple of minutes had elapsed he had been secured to the tree. Then they commenced haggling among themselves as to who should fire the fatal shot. It was a weird scene, this summary justice directed by a woman. The choice fell at last upon a tall hulking fellow in ragged coat and a hat of dirty sheepskin, who, addressed by the nickname of “The Goat,” on account of the shape of his beard, lifted his gun with a jeering remark at the cowering wretch, and stepped back to take more deliberate aim.
“No,” I cried, “don’t let him be shot on my account, Sonia. Give him his life.”
She shook her head, saying simply: “He betrayed my trust.”
“I ask you to forgive him,” I urged. “At least grant me this favour.”
She was undecided, and the outlaws hearing us speak in English, called to their tall champion to stay his hand.
“Very well,” she said, at last. “I forgive him because you plead.”
Without a word I pushed past the men surrounding us, and, taking out my pocket-knife, severed the cord holding the terrified wretch. The old scoundrel, dropping upon his knee, kissed my hand amid the loud jeers of his rough, brutal companions, then regaining his feet, took off his cap, and looking towards heaven, made the sign of the cross.