Without a doubt it was de Garcia, who now, as at every crisis of my
life, appeared to shape my fortunes to some evil end, and I felt as I
looked upon him that the last and greatest struggle between us was at
hand, and that before many days were sped, the ancient and accumulated
hate of one or of both of us would be buried for ever in the silence of
death. How ill had fate dealt with me, now as always. But a few minutes
before, when I set that arrow on the string, I had wavered for a moment,
doubting whether to loose it at the young cavalier who lay dead, or at
the knight who rode next to him; and see! I had slain one with whom I
had no quarrel and left my enemy unharmed.
'Ho there!' cried de Garcia in Spanish. 'I desire to speak with the
leader of the rebel Otomie on behalf of the Captain Bernal Diaz, who
commands this army.'
Now I mounted on the wall by means of a ladder which was at hand, and
answered, 'Speak on, I am the man you seek.'
'You know Spanish well, friend,' said de Garcia, starting and looking at
me keenly beneath his bent brows. 'Say now, where did you learn it? And
what is your name and lineage?'
'I learned it, Juan de Garcia, from a certain Donna Luisa, whom you knew
in your days of youth. And my name is Thomas Wingfield.'
Now de Garcia reeled in his saddle and swore a great oath.
'Mother of God!' he said, 'years ago I was told that you had taken up
your abode among some savage tribe, but since then I have been far,
to Spain and back indeed, and I deemed that you were dead, Thomas
Wingfield.
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