After his first few captures, the mere terror of his presence had proved enough to paralyze all resistance. Men were benumbed with fear when he approached.
At last Lucia stood up to go to her room; and, as she turned, it seemed to her that there was a movement in the far corner of the patio.
“In the name of heaven,
Señor
Torreño!” she breathed.
The shadow stirred. A man stood upright.
“Carlos…fool…your pistol!” growled out Torreño.
“It is I…Taki!” said the shadow.
“Tie the red-face to a post and have him whipped!” commanded Torreño. “Have you turned into a spy Taki?”
“It is the command of the
señorita,”
said the Indian. “I am to stay close to her to protect her in case of harm.”
“Seven thousand devils!” thundered the other. “Am I not guard enough for her, and in my own house? Lucia, what madness is this?”
“Only
Señor
Torreño,” she said, “because he was given to me, and I did not know what other work to give him.”
“Well,” said Torreño, “you must not be afraid of the ghosts you make with your own hands. But for half of a second, I looked at him and thought…the Black Rider!”
“Is the Black Rider so large a man?”
“Larger, it is said. A very giant! A span taller than this Taki of yours. Good night!”
Don Carlos went with her to the door of her room; Taki was three paces to the rear.
“Dear Lucia,” he said, as they paused there, “now that you have seen my father and his country, do you think that you can be happy among us and our rude people?”
She looked up to him with a little twisted smile. “Ah, Carlos,” she said, “I should be afraid to say no to the son of Don Francisco!”
And she hurried on into the room with Anna d’Arquista. Don Carlos turned to speak to Taki, but that man of the silent foot had already disappeared. There was no definite quarters assigned to the Indian. He was left to shift for himself, and the place he had chosen was in a nook behind a hedge. There, from a blanket roll, he provided himself with what he wanted, which was chiefly a mask of black silk, fitting closely over his face, a pistol, and a rapier. Provided with these, he made his way back toward the house, moving swiftly but with caution and going, wherever possible, in the gloom beneath the trees, for the moon was up, now, and the open places were silvered with faint light. He came to the wall of the big, squat house and moved around it until a form loomed in front of him.
A short-barreled musket was instantly thrust against his breast. Yet the voice of the guard was muffled, for fear lest he needlessly disturb the slumber of his master.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“I am the new man.”
“I know of no new man.”
The footfalls of the other sentinel, who kept guard around the corner of the wall, paused at the end of his beat. In a moment he would be back and in view of them. Taki drew in his breath and tensed his muscles.
“I have ridden all afternoon up from the harbor.”
“Ah?”
“You are Giovanni?”
“Yes.”
“I have brought you a message.”
“From whom?”
“Naples.”
“[Diablol”
breathed the other. “Are you from Naples?”
And he lowered the muzzle of his gun a trifle. In that instant Taki struck the other with bone-crushing force on the base of the jaw, and he slumped gently forward on his face. Taki stepped over him.
“Giovanni?” he heard the other guard murmur as he approached the corner of the wall.
And then the second man turned the corner and came full against Taki. He had no time to cry out. The left hand of the Indian, like a steel-clawed panther’s foot, was fixed instantly on his throat. And as his breath stopped, he snatched a knife from his belt. But Taki struck with the hilt of his rapier, and the guard turned limp in his grip.
After that, in a single minute of swift work, as one familiar with such things, he gagged them with their own garments and bound them back to back. Then he flattened
At last Lucia stood up to go to her room; and, as she turned, it seemed to her that there was a movement in the far corner of the patio.
“In the name of heaven,
Señor
Torreño!” she breathed.
The shadow stirred. A man stood upright.
“Carlos…fool…your pistol!” growled out Torreño.
“It is I…Taki!” said the shadow.
“Tie the red-face to a post and have him whipped!” commanded Torreño. “Have you turned into a spy Taki?”
“It is the command of the
señorita,”
said the Indian. “I am to stay close to her to protect her in case of harm.”
“Seven thousand devils!” thundered the other. “Am I not guard enough for her, and in my own house? Lucia, what madness is this?”
“Only
Señor
Torreño,” she said, “because he was given to me, and I did not know what other work to give him.”
“Well,” said Torreño, “you must not be afraid of the ghosts you make with your own hands. But for half of a second, I looked at him and thought…the Black Rider!”
“Is the Black Rider so large a man?”
“Larger, it is said. A very giant! A span taller than this Taki of yours. Good night!”
Don Carlos went with her to the door of her room; Taki was three paces to the rear.
“Dear Lucia,” he said, as they paused there, “now that you have seen my father and his country, do you think that you can be happy among us and our rude people?”
She looked up to him with a little twisted smile. “Ah, Carlos,” she said, “I should be afraid to say no to the son of Don Francisco!”
And she hurried on into the room with Anna d’Arquista. Don Carlos turned to speak to Taki, but that man of the silent foot had already disappeared. There was no definite quarters assigned to the Indian. He was left to shift for himself, and the place he had chosen was in a nook behind a hedge. There, from a blanket roll, he provided himself with what he wanted, which was chiefly a mask of black silk, fitting closely over his face, a pistol, and a rapier. Provided with these, he made his way back toward the house, moving swiftly but with caution and going, wherever possible, in the gloom beneath the trees, for the moon was up, now, and the open places were silvered with faint light. He came to the wall of the big, squat house and moved around it until a form loomed in front of him.
A short-barreled musket was instantly thrust against his breast. Yet the voice of the guard was muffled, for fear lest he needlessly disturb the slumber of his master.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“I am the new man.”
“I know of no new man.”
The footfalls of the other sentinel, who kept guard around the corner of the wall, paused at the end of his beat. In a moment he would be back and in view of them. Taki drew in his breath and tensed his muscles.
“I have ridden all afternoon up from the harbor.”
“Ah?”
“You are Giovanni?”
“Yes.”
“I have brought you a message.”
“From whom?”
“Naples.”
“[Diablol”
breathed the other. “Are you from Naples?”
And he lowered the muzzle of his gun a trifle. In that instant Taki struck the other with bone-crushing force on the base of the jaw, and he slumped gently forward on his face. Taki stepped over him.
“Giovanni?” he heard the other guard murmur as he approached the corner of the wall.
And then the second man turned the corner and came full against Taki. He had no time to cry out. The left hand of the Indian, like a steel-clawed panther’s foot, was fixed instantly on his throat. And as his breath stopped, he snatched a knife from his belt. But Taki struck with the hilt of his rapier, and the guard turned limp in his grip.
After that, in a single minute of swift work, as one familiar with such things, he gagged them with their own garments and bound them back to back. Then he flattened
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