"Oh! Do not mistake the meaning I attach to my words, Caballero. I have no intention to take your confidence by surprise, or encroach on your secrets. Every man's life belongs to himself—his actions concern himself alone; and I recognise no claim to a confidence which I neither expect nor desire. The only thing I ask of you is to tell me your name, that my sister and myself may retain it in our hearts."
"Why insist on so frivolous a matter?"
"I will answer—What reason have you to be so obstinate in remaining unknown?"
"Then you insist on my telling you my name?"
"Oh, Caballero, I have no right to insist; I only ask it."
"Very good," said the stranger, "you shall know my name; but I warn you that it will teach you nothing."
"Pardon me, Caballero," Don Ruiz remarked, with a touch of exquisite delicacy, "this name, repeated by me to my father, will tell him every hour in the day that it is to the man who bears it that he owes the life of his children, and a whole family will bless you."
In spite of himself, the stranger felt affected. By an instinctive movement he offered his hand to the young man, which the latter pressed affectionately. But, as if suddenly reproaching himself for yielding to his feelings, this strange man sharply drew back his hand, and reassuming the expression of sternness, which had for a moment departed from him, said, with a roughness in his voice that astonished and saddened the young Mexican, "You shall be satisfied."
We have said that Doña Marianita, in looking round her, fancied she saw the body of a man stretched on the ground a few paces from the fire. The maiden was not mistaken; it was really a man she saw, carefully gagged and bound. It was in a word, one of the two bandits who had pursued her so long, and the one whom the stranger had almost killed with a blow of his rifle butt.
After recommending Don Ruiz to be patient by a wave of his hand, the stranger rose, walked straight up to the bandit, threw him on his shoulders, and laid him at the feet of the young Mexican, perhaps rather roughly—for the pirate, in spite of the thorough Indian stoicism he affected, could not suppress a stifled yell of pain.
"Who is this man, and what do you purpose doing with him?" Don Ruiz asked, with some anxiety.
"This scoundrel," the stranger answered, harshly, "was one of the band that attacked you; we are going to try him."
"Try him?" the young gentleman objected; "We?"
"Of course," the stranger said, as he removed the bandit's gag, and unfastened the rope that bound his limbs. "Do you fancy that we are going to trouble ourselves with the scoundrel till we find a prison in which to place him, without counting the fact that, if we were so simple as to do so, the odds are about fifty to one that he would escape from us during the journey, and slip through our fingers like an opossum, to attack us a few hours later at the head of a fresh band of pirates of his own breed. No, no; that would be madness. When the snake is dead, the venom is dead, too; it is better to try him."
"But by what right can we constitute ourselves the judges of this man?"
"By what right?" the stranger exclaimed, in amazement. "The Border law, which says, 'Eye for eye; tooth for tooth.' Lynch law authorizes us to try this bandit, and when the sentence is pronounced, to execute it ourselves."
Don Ruiz reflected for a moment, during which the stranger looked at him aside with the most serious attention.
"That is possible," the young man at length answered; "perhaps you are right in speaking thus. This man is guilty—he is evidently a miserable assassin covered with blood; and, had my sister and myself fallen into his hands, he would not have hesitated to stab us, or blow out our brains."
"Well?" the stranger remarked.
"Well," the young man continued, with generous animation in his voice; "this certainly does not authorize us in taking justice into our own hands; besides, my sister is saved."
"Then it is your opinion—"
"That as we cannot hand this man over to the police, we are bound to set him at liberty, after taking all proper precautions that he cannot injure us."
"You have, doubtless, carefully reflected on the consequences of the deed you advise?"
"My conscience orders me to act as I am doing."
"Your will be done!" and, addressing the bandit, who throughout the conversation had remained gloomy and silent, though his eyes constantly wandered from one to the other of the speakers, he said to him, "Get up!"
The pirate rose.
"Look at me," the stranger continued; "do you recognise me?"
"No," the bandit said.
The stranger seized a lighted brand, and held it up near his face.
"Look at me more carefully, Kidd," he said, in a sharp, imperious voice.
The scoundrel, who had bent forward, drew himself back with a start of fear.
"Stronghand!" he exclaimed, in a voice choked by dread.
"Ah!" the horseman said, with a sardonic smile; "I see that you recognise me now."
"Yes," the bandit muttered. "What are your orders?"
"I have none. You heard all we have been saying, I suppose?"
"All."
"What do you think of it?"
The pirate did not answer.
"Speak, and be frank! I insist."
"Hum!" he said, with a side-glance.
"Will you speak? I tell you I insist."
"Well!" he answered, in a rather humbling voice, but yet with a tinge of irony easy to notice; "I think that when you hold your enemy, you ought to kill him."
"That is really your opinion?"
"Yes."
"What do you say to that?" the stranger asked, turning to Don Ruiz.
"I say," he replied, simply, "that as this man is not my enemy, I cannot and ought not to take any vengeance on him."
"Hence?"
"Hence, justice alone has the right to make him account for his conduct. As for me, I decline."
"And that is truly the expression of your thoughts?"
"On my honour, Caballero. During the fight I should not have felt the slightest hesitation in killing him—for in that case I was defending the life he tried to take; but now that he is a prisoner, and unarmed, I have no longer aught to do with him."
In spite of the mask of indifference the stranger wore on his face, he could not completely hide the joy he experienced at hearing these noble sentiments so simply expressed.
There was a moment's silence, during which the three men seemed questioning each other's faces. At length Stronghand spoke again, and addressed the bandit, who remained motionless, and apparently indifferent to what was being said—
"Go! You are free!" he said, as he cut the last bonds that held him. "But remember, Kidd, that if it has pleased this Caballero to forget your offences, I have not pardoned them. You know me, so do your best to keep out of my way, or you will not escape, so easily as this day, the just punishment you have deserved. Begone!"
"All right, Stronghand, I will remember," the bandit said, with a covert threat.
And at once gliding into the bushes, he disappeared, without taking further leave of the persons who had given him his life.
CHAPTER III.
THE BIVOUAC.