They moved off one by one, Estada leading, along the narrow strip of sand, five of them, on their mission of murder.  The leader remained alone, his back toward where I crouched, his eyes following their vanishing figures, until the night had swallowed them.

CHAPTER VIII

A VICTORY, AND A DEFEAT

I arose silently to my feet, conscious of possessing no weapon, yet fully aware that all hope of thwarting this villainy lay in immediate action.  But I must await the right moment.  Even with the advantage of surprise, there would inevitably be the noise of struggle.  I had in the past despised Sanchez, but I had never yet tested him as a fighting man, and, indeed, no longer considered the fellow to be a mean antagonist.  Remembering who he was, I now realized fully the desperate nature of my attempt, the need of quick, remorseless action.  Nevertheless I dared not attack until assured that those men he had just dispatched were safely beyond ear-shot.  I could hear or see nothing of them; they had vanished utterly, and the soft sand returned no echo of their footsteps.  Time alone gave me judgment as to the distance they would travel.  If I yielded too much of this, they might attain the sloop before I could sound an alarm; while if I moved too quickly the noise would bring them back to the rescue.  The moments were agony, as I bent tensely forward, poised for a leap.  God!  I could wait no longer!

Sanchez had turned slightly, apparently immersed in thought, and stood with his face toward the Bay.  Even in that darkness his position was that of a man intently listening for the slightest sound to reach him out of the black night.  I ventured a cautious step forward, and stood on the open sand, scarcely a yard to his rear, every nerve throbbing, my lips still silently counting the seconds.  I could not, I dared not wait longer.  Some vague sense of my presence must have influenced the man, for he swung suddenly about, uttering a stifled cry of startled surprise, as we met face to face.  For an instant we were locked so closely within each other’s desperate grip, his head bent beneath my arm, with my fingers clutching at his throat to block any call for help, that he possessed no knowledge of his assailant’s identity.  But the man was like a tiger, possessed of immense strength encased in a wiry frame.  The surprise of attack was to my advantage, yet almost before I realized what was being done, he had rallied, broken my first hold, and his eyes were glaring straight into mine.  Then he knew me, signaling his discovery with an oath, his free hand instantly grasping at the knife concealed beneath his loose cloak.  Even as he jerked it forth, I crushed his wrist within my fingers, forcing his fore-arm back.  Breast to breast we wrestled for mastery, every muscle strained, our feet firm planted on the sand.  There was no outcry, no noise, except that of our heavy breathing, and trampling feet.  Personal hatred had ascendancy in both our hearts—­I doubt if he ever thought of aught else but the desire to kill me there with his own hands.  Only once did he even utter a word, hissing out the sentence as though it were a poison: