"_Cuidado, amigos mios; cuidado?_" he added in a voice of taunt and warning, but evidently while he was uncertain whether or not any one had approached his post. He drew his thumbnail cautiously across the sharp edge of his flint, he raised his musquet to his shoulder, and was about to fire in the direction of the place where Ronald and Evan stood concealed. Another second would perhaps have sealed the fate of one of them, when the stiletto of the dragoon glittered near him in the pale moonlight,—a heavy blow was given, and a deep groan succeeded: the robber fell dying upon the sward, while his musquet only flashed in the pan, and fell rattling from his grasp without doing damage. Ronald rushed towards the spot, and found the bloodthirsty sargento wiping his deadly weapon with scrupulous accuracy, while he kept his foot upon the yet warm, though breathless corpse of the man he had destroyed. The light of the moon fell with a cold and ghastly lustre on the pale and rigid, yet very fine features of the dead man, becoming contracted and fierce with the recent death-struggle. His white and up-turned eyes shone with a terrible glare, as the moon-beams fell on them, and altogether there was something sad and appalling in the sudden manner in which this desperado had been hurled into eternity, with all his unrepented and manifold sins upon his head. "Awfu’ work this, sir!" said Evan with a shudder, while he surveyed the stark and bold features of the slain, around whom a black pool formed by his blood lay increasing. "A dour-looking chield he is, wi’ a gloom on his brow that would suit Rob Roy himsel." "I would to Heaven, Gomez," observed the equally excited Stuart, "you had found some other mode of silencing him than this; there is somewhat in it at which I revolt." The Spaniard laughed grimly. "Senor," said he, "the man was only a robber; and when old Murillo gets hold of such, he hangs them by scores at a time, and I have seen a stout beech bending under a load of such devil’s fruit. Pho! senor, it matters not. We are now close upon the ruins of the chapel, and the villains who harbour there have some formidable allies,—mastiff dogs. I hear them growling, and I assure you, senor, that a demon may be as easily dealt with as a Spanish hound. You will require all your resolution and energy to—" "I do not mean to relinquish the search, after having proceeded so far," replied Ronald, interrupting the Spaniard, at whose tone he felt a little piqued. "I assure you, Sargento Gomez, ’tis not the sight of a little blood that will make the heart of a Scottish Highlander fail." "I meant not to offend, senor; but let us proceed. The ruins of Santa Lucia are some twenty yards from this." "Forward, then,—lead on!" Ronald in passing possessed himself of the dead man’s loaded musquet and well-filled pouch of ball cartridges, an acquisition on which he had soon reason to congratulate himself. *CHAPTER XV.*