_Ay_, with this he might shoot if he were not wounded!...

And winking an eye, he showed his captain what he called his "instrument." The mate disliked firearms, crazy and noisy toys of doubtful result.
With an ancestral affection which appeared to evoke the flashing battle-axes used by his ancestors, he loved the blow in silence, the gleaming weapon which was a prolongation of the hand.
With gentle stealthiness he drew from his belt an English knife, acquired at the time that he was skipper of a small boat,--a shining blade which reproduced the faces of those looking at it, with the sharp point of a stiletto and the edge of a _razor_.
Perhaps he would not be long in making use of his "instrument." He recalled various individuals who a few days ago were strolling slowly along the wharf examining the vessel, and spying upon those going on and off.

If he could manage to see them again he would go off the steamer just to say a couple of words to them.
"You are to do nothing at all," ordered Ferragut.

"I'll take charge of this little matter." All day long he was troubled over this news.

Strolling about Barcelona, he looked with challenging eyes at all passersby who appeared to be Germans.