Forsetta took possession of Simon's pocket-book and watch, tested the firmness of his bonds and then, flat on his stomach, with one of the Mazzanis on either side, crawled under the wrack and seaweed towards the spot where the girl was tending the horses. Simon repeatedly saw their supple bodies wriggling like reptiles. Dolores, who was busied over the saddle-bags, had her back to them. No feeling of uneasiness warned her of her danger. In vain Simon strove against his bonds and uttered shouts which were stifled by his gag. No power could prevent the Indians from attaining their aim. The younger Mazzani was the swifter of the two. He suddenly sprung upon Dolores and threw her down, while his brother leapt upon one of the horses and Forsetta, holding another by the bridle, gave his orders in a hoarse tone of triumph: "Lift her. Take away her rifle. . . . Good! Bring her here. . . . We'll tie her on." Dolores was placed across the saddle. But, just as Forsetta was uncoiling a rope which he carried round his waist, she raised herself upon the horse's neck, towering over young Mazzani and, raising her arm, struck him full in the chest with her dagger. The Indian fell like a stone against Forsetta; and, when the latter had released himself and made as though to continue the struggle on his own account, Dolores was already before him, threatening him point-blank with her rifle, which she had recovered: "Clear out," she said. "You too, Mazzani, clear out." Mazzani obeyed and flew off at a gallop. Forsetta, his features convulsed with rage, withdrew with deliberate steps, leading the second horse. Dolores called to him: "Leave that horse, Forsetta! This moment . . . or I fire!" He dropped the bridle and then, twenty paces farther on, suddenly turned his back and fled as fast as he could run. Simon was impressed not so much by the incident itself--a mere episode in the great tragedy--as by the extraordinary coolness which the girl had displayed. When she came to release him, her hands were cold as ice and her lips quivering: "He's dead," she faltered. "The young Mazzani is dead. . . ." "You had to defend yourself," said Simon. "Yes . . . yes . . . but to take a man's life . . . how horrible! I struck instinctively . . . as though I were acting for the films: you see, we rehearsed this scene a hundred times and more, the four of us, the Mazzanis, Forsetta and I, in the same way, with the words and gestures in the same order. . . . Even to the stab! It was young Mazzani himself who taught me that; and he often used to say: 'Bravo, Dolores! If ever you play the kidnapping-scene in real life, I'm sorry for your adversary!'" "Let's hurry," said Simon. "Mazzani may try to avenge his brother's death; and a man like Forsetta doesn't easily give up. . . ."