The man was a short spare figure, with flashing black eyes, long mustaches hanging down over his mouth, and black hair streaming on his shoulders. Energy was the characteristic of his features, and the sinews of his frame were like cords of steel. In his arms he held a child, three or four years old. The child called him father, and clasped him affectionately with its little hands. A woman was also there, sobbing passionately, and wiping the tears from her eyes. "Canst thou pray, my son?" said the man, seating the child upon his knee. "Surely he can," the woman answered; "morning and evening he repeats his prayer." "Grow up a good man, my son--not such a one as thy father. In another year put him to school, that he may learn something good." "That will I, though it were to cost me my last florin!" "And take him far hence! When he is older, never tell him what his father was. Conceal my name from him; never let him know that he is the son of Rosa Sandor the robber."[26] "Ask thy father, child, when he will again visit us." "I know not, my son. For me the morning never dawns of which I can say, this day is mine. Here to-day, to-morrow fifty miles off; after to-morrow, perhaps under the turf." "Talk not thus! See, tears are in the child's eyes." "So is it, my son, and not otherwise. The robber has none to whom to pray, early and late, for protection to his life." "But you are no murderer, Sandor! You have no man's blood upon your hands!" "Seek not to palliate my offence, dear wench! Sooner or later, the gallows and the ravens will claim me." Again the woman began to sob; the child cried when it saw its mother weep; with deep feeling the robber caressed and comforted them. "Go home, dear ones!" he said, "and be not uneasy. Tell no one that you have seen me. And His blessing be upon you, whose blessing I dare not ask!" The woman and child departed. The robber sprang into the saddle, and, standing up in the stirrups, listened, as long as they were audible, to the infantine tones of his child. Suddenly an icy-cold hand was laid upon his. Startled, but without uttering a sound, he turned his head. A man stood beside his horse. It was the fugitive from St Thomas. "Fear nothing from me, Rosa! Handle not your pistols. Mine shall not be the first blood you shed. Not to that end has your life been preserved through sixteen years of peril. Your destiny is not that of a common malefactor." "You know me, then?" "By report, as an outlaw, with a price upon your head. I know, too that you have a beloved wife and a darling child, to see whom once in every year you risk your life--here, where all know you, and any might betray you." "Not a word of that! You are ragged and needy. Doubtless you would enlist in my band. Here, take this"--he offered him a pistol; "rather than do that, send a bullet through your head."