Ronald’s only reply was a frantic attempt to free himself from the iron grasp of the other. "Be still,—_carajo_!" said the ruffian as he unsheathed a poniard; "be still, or I may mercifully give a deep stroke at once, without having the little conversation I wish to enjoy with you, before you die." "Dog of a robber!—dog of a Spaniard!" gasped Ronald in a hoarse accent. "Free but my right hand and, weak and exhausted as I am, I will meet you—" "Ho, _Demonios!_ a rare request! _Par Diez!_ no, no, _mi amigo_. I will have these bright epaulets, (which I beg you will not spoil by struggling so,) and I will have this golden cross and other things, without either the risk or trouble of trying points with you. Hah! have you forgotten the night when we first met at Albuquerque? By our Lady of Majorga, you shall this night know that I have not! We have many odd scores to pay off, and they may as well be settled here on the field of Vittoria, as elsewhere. Besides, Senor Valour, when your corpse is found, you will be mentioned among the killed in the _Gaceta de la Regencia_. Hah! hah!" "Wretch! you forget that this day my blood has been shed for Spain and Ferdinand VII.!" "You have been paid for that, I suppose," replied the fellow, accompanying his observation, which might have suited a British radical, with an insultng laugh, while Stuart, panted with rage. "Now, then,—what would you do were you released by me?" "Stab you to the heart!" The robber laughed. "_Cuidado_ was ever my motto," said he; "a dead man tells no tales." Grasping and compressing Ronald’s throat with his left hand, he flourished aloft his right, which held his stiletto, a sharp short dagger, with a round blade like that instrument known as a butcher’s steel. "Now, _valiente senor_, compound for death, and not for life? I may prolong your tortures, giving a hundred stabs instead of one; but your dying moment shall be easy, if the lining of your pockets is tolerable. A stab for every _duro_! hah! hah!" That instinctive feeling which causes every man to struggle to the utmost to preserve life, arose powerfully in the breast of Ronald Stuart at that instant, when he saw the deadly blade of the ruthless assassin gleaming above him in the moonlight. He felt that his last moment was come, and yet he resolved not to die without another gallant struggle. Exerting every energy—straining every muscle and fibre, by one desperate effort he hurled the robber violently backwards; but before he could rise, his merciless assailant again sprung upon him with renewed ferocity, and striking blindly with his stiletto, buried it twice in the turf close by Ronald’s ear. There can be little doubt that this new attack would have terminated fatally for him, had not two officers, muffled to the eyes in their cloaks ridden hastily up, upon which the robber, without attempting to strike another blow, snatched up his rifle and fled,—but not unscathed.