He was of a good height in this position; and Don Luis easily understood why the driver of the yellow taxi, who had seen him under two such different aspects, was unable to say whether he was very tall or very short.

But his legs, slack and unsteady, gave way beneath him, as if any prolonged exertion were beyond his power.  He relapsed into his first attitude.

The man was a cripple, smitten with some disease that affected his powers of locomotion.  He was excessively thin.  Don Luis also saw his pallid face, his cavernous cheeks, his hollow temples, his skin the colour of parchment:  the face of a sufferer from consumption, a bloodless face.

When he had finished his inspection, he came up to Florence and said: 

“Though you’ve been very good, baby, and haven’t screamed so far, we’d better take our precautions and remove any possibility of a surprise by giving you a nice little gag to wear, don’t you think?”

He stooped over her and wound a large handkerchief round the lower part of her face.  Then, bending still farther down, he began to speak to her in a very low voice, talking almost into her ear.  But wild bursts of laughter, horrible to hear, interrupted this whispering.

Feeling the imminence of the danger, dreading some movement on the wretch’s part, a sudden murderous attack, the prompt prick of a poisoned needle, Don Luis had levelled his revolver and, confident of his skill, waited events.

What was happening over there?  What were the words spoken?  What infamous bargain was the villain proposing to Florence?  At what shameful price could she obtain her release?

The cripple stepped back angrily, shouting in furious accents: 

“But don’t you understand that you are done for?  Now that I have nothing more to fear, now that you have been silly enough to come with me and place yourself in my power, what hope have you left?  To move me, perhaps:  is that it?  Because I’m burning with passion, you imagine—?  Oh, you never made a greater mistake, my pet!  I don’t care a fig if you do die.  Once dead, you cease to count....

“What else?  Perhaps you consider that, being crippled, I shall not have the strength to kill you?  But there’s no question of my killing you, Florence.  Have you ever known me kill people?  Never!  I’m much too big a coward, I should be frightened, I should shake all over.  No, no, Florence, I shan’t touch you, and yet—­

“Here, look what’s going to happen, see for yourself.  I tell you the thing’s managed in my own style....  And, whatever you do, don’t be afraid.  It’s only a preliminary warning.”

He had moved away and, helping himself with his hands, holding on to the branches of a tree, he climbed up the first layers of rock that formed the grotto on the right.  Here he knelt down.  There was a small pickaxe lying beside him.  He took it and gave three blows to the nearest heap of stones.  They came tumbling down in front of the grotto.