CHAPTER XV

A PASSAGE AT ARMS

He stood motionless, one hand grasping the limb of a tree, leaning far out so as to gaze up the river, totally unconscious of my approach.  The fellow was tall, yet heavily built, wearing a great leather helmet with brass facings, his body encased in a slashed doublet, the strap fastenings of a steel breastplate showing at waist and shoulders, while high boots of yellow cordovan leather extended above his knees.  I noticed also the upward curve of a huge gray moustache against the stern profile of his face, while a long straight sword dangled at his side.  Evidently the stranger was a soldier, and one not to be despised in feats at arms, although in what service I might merely conjecture, as his dress was not distinctive.  Yet it was small likelihood any other nation than Spain had armed men in those parts.

That he had discovered and was watching our camp, I entertained no doubt, yet for the moment the surprise of seeing him was so great I was unable to choose my safer course,—­should I withdraw silently as I came, or make quick attack?  If the first, he would certainly see me recross the river, and suspect my mission.  Nor was the other alternative more promising.  If I sprang upon him (and he looked a burly antagonist), such combat could not be noiseless, and surely the fellow was not alone in this wilderness.  How close at hand lurked his companions was beyond guessing, yet, if the sound of struggle aroused that band of wolves, my life would not be worth the snapping of a finger.  I felt cold chills creep up my spine as I stood hesitating, one foot uplifted, my eyes staring at that motionless figure.

I waited too long, until every vantage left me.  Suddenly the soldier swung back from his lookout on to firmer ground, wheeled, and faced me.  I marked his start of surprise, noting his right hand drop, with soldierly instinct, upon the sword hilt, half drawing the blade before recovering from that first impulse.  Then curiosity usurped the place of fear.  He took one step backward, still upon guard, surveying me carefully with one glinting gray eye, for the other had been closed by a slashing cut, which left an ugly white scar extending half-way down his cheek.  Except for this deformity, he was a man of fair appearance, having a stern, clearly chiselled face, with a certain arrogant manner, telling of long authority in scenes of war.  A half smile of contempt played across his features as he ran me down from head to foot, evidently with the thought I was little worthy of his steel.  It was then I recognized him.  There had been familiarity about his great bulk from the first, yet now, as I faced him fairly, marking the haughty sneer curl his lips, I knew him instantly as that officer who passed us in the boat with the priest.

“By the true cross!” he exclaimed at last, as if his breath had barely returned, “you gave me a start such as I have not often had in all my soldiering.  Yet you are no ghost; your aspect is altogether too healthful for one condemned to exist upon air. Saprista! you must have a light foot to steal thus on me unheard.  Who are you, fellow?  What do you here upon this soil of Spain?”