"Wretches! how dare you thus speak to me?" demanded the Fidalgo, indignantly. "Retire instantly, and allow my people to pass without molestation, or I will order them to fire." "Hark! to the fidalgo--he is vapouring!" cried one of the band. "If you dare to resist, you shall be the first victim, Senhor Fidalgo!" exclaimed he who had first spoken. "And remember your daughter--her fate be on your own head!" The priest rode fiercely towards them, exclaiming, "Begone, wretches! or dread the anathema of the Church on your souls!" "Hark to the priest--he's preaching!" cried one with a broad-brimmed hat drawn over his eyes, laughing. "Pooh, pooh, Senhor Padre, we are not afraid of mother Church; so do not waste your breath: we can get a priest to curse you in return, you know." The brow of Goncalo Christovao grew dark with anger. "Vile miscreants!" he exclaimed, "you shall not intimidate us. Forward, my men!" The servants who were near their master prepared to obey; but the muleteers seemed no way inclined to fight. "Ah! is it so?" exclaimed the captain of the banditti. "Fire on the fools!" Several shots were discharged; but, fortunately, none of the party were injured; and the robbers, drawing their swords, rushed on with loud oaths, but were met with steady courage by the fidalgo and his two attendants--he parrying, with great skill, every blow aimed at him, till his servants were both disarmed, but his arm growing weary, at length, of wielding his blade, a sudden blow wrenched it from his grasp, and he was thrown with violence to the ground. The priest, in the meantime, remained by Donna Clara's litter, though he looked fully willing, had he possessed a sword, to have joined in the fray; while the muleteers stood trembling by, without attempting to interfere.