You call me a traitor, and you let that thing live, though he has killed your priest and betrayed your plans.

Kill me if you like, but by God let him die first.' I do not know how the others took the revelation, for my eyes were only for the Portugoose.

He made a step towards me, his hands twitching by his sides.
'You lie,' he screamed in that queer broken voice which much fever gives.

'It was this English hound that killed the Keeper, and felled me when I tried to save him.

The man who insults my honour is dead.' And he plucked from his belt a pistol.
A good shot does not miss at two yards.