Where he went no one knew
or cared, but he, too, would be away all day. His small, black eyes
glowed with smoldering fires of hatred whenever he looked at the
captain, but his looks were always furtive, and so for the most part
escaped observation.
One day Captain Hill stood in contemplation on the edge of a
precipitous bluff, looking seaward. His hands were folded, and he
looked thoughtful. His back was turned, so he could not, therefore,
see a figure stealthily approaching, the face distorted by murderous
hate, the hand holding a long, slender knife. Fate was approaching him
in the person of a deadly enemy. He did not know that day by day
Francesco had dogged his steps, watching for the opportunity which had
at last come.
So stealthy was the pace, and so silent the approach of the foe, that
the captain believed himself wholly alone till he felt a sharp lunge,
as the stiletto entered his back between his shoulders. He staggered,
but turned suddenly, all his senses now on the alert, and discovered
who had assailed him.
"Ha! it is you!" he exclaimed wrathfully, seizing the Italian by the
throat. "Dog, what would you do?"
"Kill you!" hissed the Italian, and with the remnant of his strength
he thrust the knife farther into his enemy's body.
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