snatching out the dagger that he always wore in a leather sheath at his belt.
Helena Sprague, knowing his scoundrelly intention before it even dawned to Henderson, screamed as if the dagger threatened her own throat.
"No, no! you thief!" she cried.
She stood grasping a bar of the window with both hands, trying hopelessly to tear it out of its heavy bracket and go to the help of her horse, menaced by a danger that Henderson did not yet understand. Roberto lifted his dagger, sweeping it as if to salute her, to dedicate to her the sacrifice, the sun flashing on its bright blade.
"What a pity to blind such a horse!" a man near Henderson's window said.
There was a passage between the place where lumber was stored and this chamber of woolsacks, into which a wagon could be driven. The people who had gathered to see Don Roberto's entertainment stood across this passage as Henderson dashed from his concealment, Simon's big pistol in his hand. They parted like smoke before him; the murmur of their astonishment sounded in his ears as he bounded into the open and ran with the spring of his sea strength in his limbs, across the court.
Roberto turned at the sound of Henderson's feet, his dagger held high, as he had poised it to sink it in the eye of the unconquered horse.
Roberto had reason to fear the wrath of this
