(My heart beat quicker! I remembered the story of the village girl's death, and that her clenched hand retained the fragment of a man's ruff or collar--and now I saw that Bandolo's broad lace one, of point d'Espagne, was nearly all torn away. This ruffian--this bravo--the assassin of poor Dreghorn--this man of a hundred murders--had just added another item to his frightful list of atrocities!) I was pondering whether or not his false paunch was pistol proof, while my host whispered something rapidly in his ear. The wretch set down his glass, and grew red and white by turns. "'Tis he--'tis my man!" said he in a low thick voice, as he arose and flung aside his cloak. "Who--who?" asked the Merodeurs. "A prisoner who has escaped from Tilly's quarter-guard--a scurvy Scottish musketeer. He knows me, Bernhard, and has recognised me frequently. Thus, if once he reaches the Danish lines or garrisons, I can never act the spy and befriend the Count Tilly again; for I tell you all he has discovered me--and must die! For Vida del Demonio! I have killed many a better man before this, and shall I," he added, with a satanic smile on his fierce Spanish mouth, "shall I leave in my path this adder, whom I can crush with so little danger--here in Bernhard's hut--far from help or succour? Has he pistols?" "No--nor dagger; for of course I looked well," replied the forester in the same low voice. "We have pistols and daggers," said Bandolo, as he and the three Merodeurs unsheathed their long poniards, and examined the edges and points of the keen broad blades, which gleamed in the lurid light of the smoky lamp. Its rays fell on the dogged visage of the forester, on the bloated and ferocious features of the Merodeurs, browned by exposure, fringed by black beards, and seamed with the scars of battle and brawl; and on the face of Bandolo, whose eyes gleamed with cruelty, and whose lips were compressed with determination. It is impossible for me to describe my emotions during this conversation, every word of which I had heard with a painful distinctness, which has impressed it upon my memory. I was single-handed against five! Resistance, though it might revenge, could never save me. The window was a fixture; the door I had not the means of barricading; and the roof of bark and planks, against which I thrust with all my strength, was too solid for a single hand to move. My goatskin Highland purse, the gift of Ian, with its four concealed pistol-barrels (though each of them was not bigger than a man's middle finger), could alone save me--and the ruffians thought I was without pistols.