strength and skill peculiar to him hurled it with all his might upon the
stone steps of the dwelling.

Not a single word, only a savage cry of fury, followed by a piteous moan,
had escaped Wolf's lips during this swift deed of violence.

The Spaniard scornfully thrust aside with his foot the inert body lying
on the ground. His arrogance did not deem it worth while to ascertain
what had befallen the murderer who had been punished. He had more
important things to do, for his own blood was flowing in a hot, full
stream over his hand.

Accustomed in bull fighting and in battle to maintain his calmness and
caution even in the most difficult situation, he said to himself that, if
his wound should be connected with the murder before this house it would
betray his master's secret to the Ratisbon courts of justice, and thereby
to the public.

He had heard the skull of the lurking thief strike against the granite
steps of the house. So the dark, motionless mass before him was probably
a corpse. There was no hurry about that, but his own condition compelled
him to take care of himself. Entering the shadow of a tall building
opposite the dwelling, he assured himself that the street was entirely
empty, and then, drawing the aching arm from the doublet, he examined the
wound as well as the dim light would permit. It was deep, it is true,
but the robber's weapon appeared merely to have cut the flesh.

A jerk, and Quijada had stripped the ruff from his neck, and, as this did
not suffice, he cut with his sword blade and his teeth a piece of fine
linen from his shirt.