The stranger felt his opportunity; and, inch by inch, Antonio was dragged, pushed, shouldered, butted, elbowed, kneed back to the torrent's brim. But the ground was slippery: and both the wrestlers slithered and crashed down heavily. They were up again in a twinkling, facing each other with intent eyes. The stranger's shoulders were bent and his hands touched his knees as he crouched for a second spring. At the sight of him a white flash of memory blazed across Antonio's mind. Those tigerish eyes, those hunched shoulders, those great, terrible hands outspread upon those clumsy knees--he had seen them all before. By this time his eyes were used to the dusk and mist, and he knew he was not deceived: for he could discern a wound on the peasant's cheek. Before the other had time to make his pounce, the monk cried out in imperious tones: "Hold. I know you. We are friends!" "Friends?" hissed the stranger. "Pretty friends! I don't make friends with thieves and atheists." All the same, his taut muscles relaxed. Antonio's tone had awed him a little, and Antonio's words had puzzled him a great deal. His shoulders unbent and he did not spring. "I am not an atheist and I am not a thief," said Antonio sternly. "But even thieves and atheists are not so bad as murderers. Why have you tried to drown me in this torrent?" "Because you're a spy and a blasphemer and a robber." "Tell me your name," the monk demanded. And when the other only responded by a threatening gesture he added: "Never mind. I know it already. You are called José. You live at Pedrinha das Areias." The peasant's clenched hands dropped open at his sides, and he gave a low cry of astonishment and fright. "You fought with Dom Pedro at the siege of Oporto," continued the monk. "It was there you lost two fingers from your left hand. Wait. I haven't finished. Nearly four years ago you were one of the troop which came to drive the monks out of this abbey. You were sent back home for quarreling with another soldier about religion. You rode back to Oliveira on your own horse. Now, I ask you again, why have you tried to murder me?" "It's a lie that I came here to drive out monks," cried the peasant, nearly choking with anger. "I didn't know we'd been sent on such dirty work." "Why have you tried to murder me?" "Because ... because you're in the pay of that accursed Viscount. Murder you? Yes, God helping me, I'll do it this minute!" "God is not helping you, and you won't do it this minute," said Antonio calmly. "Now that I've got back my wind you haven't a ghost of a chance. You lost two fingers fighting, like a brave man, at Oporto. Understand. If there's no other way, I shall have to twist either your right wrist or your left ankle to keep you quiet. So--"