Then he knelt down, levelled his musket, and fired.
I was so astonished at this sudden crash at my very elbow that I
nearly fell out of the tree. For an instant I could not be sure
that he had not hit me. But when I heard a deep groan from
below, and the Spaniard leaned over the parapet and laughed
aloud, I understood what had occurred. It was my poor, faithful
sergeant, who had waited to see the last of me. The Spaniard had
seen him standing under the tree and had shot him. You will
think that it was good shooting in the dark, but these people
used trabucos, or blunderbusses, which were filled up with all
sorts of stones and scraps of metal, so that they would hit you
as certainly as I have hit a pheasant on a branch. The Spaniard
stood peering down through the darkness, while an occasional
groan from below showed that the sergeant was still living. The
sentry looked round and everything was still and safe.
Perhaps he thought that he would like to finish of this accursed
Frenchman, or perhaps he had a desire to see what was in his
pockets; but whatever his motive, he laid down his gun, leaned
forward, and swung himself into the tree.
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