Everything was now quite dry, as the wind had been blowing all day. But
the breeze had died with the night, and the camp was so still that Ned
could hear the faint trickle of the water over the sand. It was a fair
night, with a cold moon and cold stars looking down. The air was full
of chill, and Ned began to walk up and down again in order to keep warm.
He noticed Roylston still sitting with eyes wide open and the rifle
across his lap.
As Ned came near in his walk the merchant turned his bright eyes upon
him.
"I hear," he said, "that you have seen Santa Anna."
"More than once. Several times when I was a prisoner in Mexico, and
again when I was recaptured."
"What do you think of him?"
The gaze of the bright eyes fixed upon Ned became intense and
concentrated.
"A great man! A wickedly great man!"
Roylston turned his look away, and interlaced his fingers thoughtfully.
"A good description, I think," he said. "You have chosen your words
well. A singular compound is this Mexican, a mixture of greatness,
vanity and evil. I may talk to you more of him some day. But I tell you
now that I am particularly desirous of not being carried a prisoner to
him."
He lifted the rifle, put its stock to his shoulder, and drew a bead.
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