“Advance and give the countersign, Pablo.”
“Baylen.”
“Wrong; it has been changed within the last ten minutes. You must go back and get it, friend Pablo.”
“It is not worth the trouble. He is only seeing me to the end of the street,” pleaded Carmen.
“I shall not let him go another step without the countersign,” returned the sentry, doggedly. “I am not sure that I ought to let you go either, father. He has only to ask—”
A sudden movement of Carmen’s arm, a gleam of steel in the darkness, the soldier’s musket falls from his grasp, and with a deep groan he sinks heavily on the ground.
“Quick, señor, or we shall be taken! Round the corner! We must not run; that would attract attention. A sharp walk. Good! Keep close to the wall. Two minutes more and we shall be safe. A narrow escape! If the sentry had made you go back or called the guard, all would have been lost.”
“How was it? Did you stab him?”
“To the heart. He has mounted guard for the last time. So much the better. It is an enemy and a Spaniard the less.”
“All the same, Señor Carmen, I would rather kill my enemies in fair fight than in cold blood.”