There was a report that
raised the echoes. With lightning speed the soldier reloaded, and then
cautiously drew nearer; but there was no need of apprehension from
Pomponio. He was dead - shot through the heart. The soldier gazed at the
inanimate form, at the bullet-hole in his breast, from which the blood
was trickling, and at the poor mutilated feet. Did a glimmer of pity
stir in his heart? It were hard to say. Yet, as he stood there looking
down at his work, perhaps there was a little feeling of sorrow for the
fate of his fellow man, coupled with a touch of shame at his own unmanly
act in thus murdering his sleeping foe, criminal though he was, and
richly deserving death. But he had scant time for reflection. The noise
of men approaching was heard in the forest. Pomponio's friends would be
here in an instant. He must go at once. He slipped away among the trees
in the direction from which he had come, and vanished. A moment later
four Indians appeared at the point where the soldier had stood when he
fired.
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