"Wait!" he
cried. "I'll give you money! Plenty of money! A million dollars! Yes, two
million!" It could not be that so shameful a fate was to be his.
"It is not zat we want money," the bandit replied. "It is zat we _don't_
want _you_."
Terror seized poor Pell. "But for God's sake," he wailed, "you wouldn't do
that! You couldn't! Without even a chance for my life. At least fight me
fair!" His voice seemed far away to him--like the voice of another being
from a distant world.
"Fair?" Lopez rolled the word over.
"Give me a gun, too!" the fool prayed.
"Give you a gun! Pedro!" The man had evidently been just outside the door,
and came in at once. "Pedro, you 'ear?" And Pedro grinned.
"Yes! Give me a chance!"
"I shall never understand ze American idea. I give you a gun, you say?"
"Yes! That's the least you can do!" Pell was weeping now.
"But if I should give you a gun, you might shoot me wiz it!" Lopez laughed.
"You won't?"
"I am no damn fool!" the bandit cried. And he deliberately raised his gun
again.
"You're not going to kill me? No! for the love of God, don't!" He plunged
forward, groveling at Lopez's feet. A woman in a melodrama could not have
begged harder for mercy.
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