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Updated: June 24, 2025
The three friends exchanged a glance of unutterable meaning, as each one wiped the sweat from his brow. Suddenly the bandit's voice grew faint, and amidst horrible bursts of laughter, like the shrieks of a lunatic, were heard the last inarticulate words that escaped his lips. A moment after, and the noise of the cascade alone broke the silence of the desert.
This hulk little Tod Fogarty, aged ten, had taken possession of; particularly the after-part of the hold, over which he had placed a trusty henchman armed with a cutlass made from the hoop of a fish barrel. The henchman aged seven wore knee-trousers and a cap and answered to the name of Archie. The refuge itself bore the title of "The Bandit's Home."
Nose to the ground, she had leaped from the bandit's car and made straight across a field in the direction that Garrick had suspected they would take, only a little to the west. "This is a regular, old-fashioned man hunt," called back Dillon, as we followed the dog and himself, as best we could.
A light seemed to come into the bandit's countenance. It was as if someone had put a lantern behind his face. "You!" he cried, enraptured. "You ze nephew zat owns zis ranch?" Gilbert came farther into the room. Everyone now had turned back, stood stock still, listening to these two. "Yes," said young Jones. "I am. What of it?" He didn't understand matters at all.
In the meantime, Diaz, seated at some distance on the plain, had not lost a single detail of this melancholy scene. He had seen Cuchillo suddenly appear, he had imagined the part he would be required to fulfil, he heard the bandit's cry of false alarm, and even the bloody catastrophe of the drama had not been unseen by him.
This last scene had escaped the bandit's observation, the thicket of cotton-trees concealing it from his sight; besides, he was too much absorbed in the contemplation of his treasures to turn his eyes away from them.
But what can such a cuirass avail against the bandit's ruthless pincers? He is indeed a mighty hunter, this Nimrod of the sea-shore. All black and glossy, like a jet bugle, his body is divided by a very narrow groove at the waist. His weapon of offence consists of a pair of claw-like mandibles of extraordinary vigour.
All wear the conical hat. In cold weather the dark bandit's cloak is also seen. As we approach Rome the country becomes more and more barren; the mountains recede, and the extended plains have a desert, uncultivated look. Towns and villages become so thinly scattered, that it seems as though the whole region were depopulated.
Poor Branwen felt inclined to die on the spot at this cool assumption that she was to become a bandit's wife; but she succeeded in repressing all appearance of feeling as she rose, and, stretching up her arms, gave vent to a careless yawn. "I must go and have a ramble now," she said. "I'm tired of sitting so long."
Her dark clouds slowly passed away as Levin turned from the place, but her small head and abundant raven hair showed the blood troubled to the roots, and the eyes, once rich with midnight depths, now glazing in the course of time, like old window panes, by age, searched the bandit's face with a strange fear: "Van Dorn, time and pleasure cannot kill you: how well you look to-day.
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