The Purple Land

the most murderous-looking villain I have ever had the misfortune to meet: that was the deliberate opinion I came to before I formed a closer acquaintance with him. He was a broad-chested, powerful-looking man of medium height; his hands he kept concealed under the large cloth poncho he wore, and he had on a slouch hat that just allowed his eyes to be seen under the rim. They were truculent, yellowish-green eyes, that seemed to grow fiery and dim and fiery again by turns, yet never for a single instant were they averted from my face. His black hair hung to his shoulders, and he also had a bristly moustache, which did not conceal his brutal mouth, nor was there any beard to hide his broad, swarthy jowl. His jaws were the only part of him that had any motion, while he stood there, still as a bronze statue, watching me. At intervals he ground his teeth, after which he would slap his lips together two or three times, while a slimy froth, most sickening to see, gathered at the corners of his mouth.

“Gandara, you are not drinking,” said one of the gauchos, turning to him. He shook his head slightly without speaking or taking his eyes off my face; whereupon the man who had spoken smiled and resumed his conversation with the others.

The long, intense, soul-trying scrutiny this brutal wretch had subjected me to came to a very sudden end. Quick as lightning a long, broad knife flashed out from its concealment under his poncho, and with one catlike bound he was before me, the point of his horrid weapon touching my poncho just over the pit of my stomach.

“Do not move, rebel,” he said in a husky voice. “If you move one hair’s breadth, that moment you die.”

The other men all ceased talking and looked on with some interest, but did not offer to interfere or make any remark.

For one moment I felt as if an electric shock had gone through me, and then instantly I was calm⁠—never, in fact, have I felt more calm and collected than at that terrible moment. ’Tis a blessed instinct of self-preservation which nature has provided us with; feeble, timid men possess it in common with the strong and brave, as weak, persecuted wild animals have it as well as those that are fierce and bloodthirsty. It is the calm which comes without call when death suddenly and unexpectedly rises up to stare us in the face; it tells us that there is one faint chance which a premature attempt to escape or even a slight agitation will destroy.

“I have no wish to move, friend,” I said, “but I am curious to know why you attack me?”

“Because you are a rebel. I have seen you before, you are one of Santa Coloma’s officers. Here you shall stand with this knife touching you till you are arrested, or else with this knife in you here you shall die.”

“You are making a mistake,” I said.

“Neighbours,” said he, speaking to the others, but without taking his eyes from my face, “will you tie this man hand and foot while I stand before him to prevent him from drawing any weapon he may have concealed under his poncho?”

“We have not come here to arrest travellers,” returned one of the men. “If he is a rebel it is no concern of ours. Perhaps you are mistaken, Gandara.”

“No, no, I am not mistaken,” he returned. “He shall not escape. I saw him at San Paulo with these eyes⁠—when did they ever deceive me? If you refuse to assist me, then go one of you to the Alcalde’s house and tell him to come without delay, while I keep guard here.”

After a little discussion one of the men offered to go and inform the Alcalde. When he had left, I said, “My friend, may I finish my meal? I am hungry, and had just begun to eat when you drew your knife against me.”

“Yes; eat,” he said; “only keep your hands well up so that I can see them. Perhaps you have a weapon at your waist.”

“I have not,” I said, “for I am an inoffensive person and do not require weapons.”

“Tongues were made to lie,” he returned, truly enough. “If I see you drop your hand lower than the counter I shall rip you up. We shall then be able to see whether you digest your food or not.”

I began to eat and sip my wine, still with those brutal eyes on my face and the keen knife-point touching my poncho. There was now a ghastly look of horrible excitement on his face, while his teeth-grinding performances became more frequent and the slimy froth dropped continually from the corners of his mouth on to his bosom. I dared not look at the knife, because a terrible impulse to wrest it out of his hands kept rising in me. It was almost too strong to be overcome, yet I knew that even the slightest attempt to escape would be fatal to me; for the fellow was evidently thirsty for my blood and only wanted an excuse to run me through. But what, I thought, if he were to grow tired of waiting, and, carried away by his murderous instincts, to plunge his weapon into me? In that case I should die like a dog, without having availed myself of my one chance of escape through over-caution. These thoughts were maddening, still through it all I laboured to observe an outwardly calm demeanour.

My supper was done. I began to feel strangely weak and nervous. My lips grew dry; I was intensely thirsty and longed for more wine, yet dared not take it for fear that in my excited state even a very moderate amount of alcohol might cloud my brain.

“How long will it take your friend to return with the Alcalde?” I asked at length.

Gandara made no reply. “A long time,” said one of the other men. “I, for one,