And with that we placed our horses across the road, whipped out our pistols and pointed them at the troopers’ heads, to their owners’ unutterable surprise.
“We are sorry to inconvenience you, señores,” said my companion, politely; “but we are going to release this slave, and we have need of your horses. Unbuckle your swords, throw them on the ground, and dismount. No hesitation, or you are dead men! Shall we treat them as they proposed to treat the slave, Señor Fortescue? Blow out their brains? It will be safer, and save us a deal of trouble.”
“No! That would be murder. Let them go. They can do no harm. It is impossible for them to overtake the others on foot.”
Meanwhile the soldiers, having the fear of being shot before them, had dismounted and laid down their weapons.
“Go!” said Carmen, pointing northward, and they went.
“Your name?” (to the prisoner whose bonds I was cutting with my sword).
“Here they call me José. In my own country I was called Gahra—”
“Let it be Gahra, then. It is less common than José. Every other peon in the country is called José. You are a native of Africa?”
“Si, señor.”
“How came you hither?”