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 "You'll not strangle me," answers the Don, calmly, "and here's my reason if you would see it." And with that he tilts his elbow, and with a turn of the wrist displays a long knife that lay concealed under his forearm. "I know no other defence against the attack of a madman."

"If I be mad," says Dawson, "and mad indeed I may be, and no wonder,—why, then, put your knife to merciful use and end my misery here."

"Nay, take it in your own hand," answers the Don, offering the knife. "And use it as you will—on yourself if you are a fool, or on me if, being not a fool, you can hold me guilty of such villany [sic] as you charged me with in your passion."

Dawson looks upon the offered knife an instant with distraction in his eyes, and the Don (not to carry this risky business too far), taking his hesitation for refusal, claps up the blade in his waist-cloth, where it lay mighty convenient to his hand.

"You are wise," says he, "for if that noble woman is to be served, 'tis not by spilling the blood of her best friends."

"You, her friend!" says Dawson.

"Aye, her best friend!" replies the other, with dignity, "for he is best who can best serve her."

"Then must I be her worst," says Jack, humbly, "having no power to undo the mischief I have wrought."

"Tell me, Señor," says I, "who hath kidnapped poor Moll?"

"Nobody. She went of her free will, knowing full well the risk she ran—the possible end of her noble adventure—against the dissuasions and the prayers of all her friends here. She stood in the doorway there, and saw you cross