He went down in a
swirl of arms and legs; he felt himself kicked, pounded, trampled,
beaten, scratched, until his friends came to the rescue and
dragged him to his feet. He rose to behold a small, fat,
disheveled Spaniard who had turned from assaulting him and now
appeared to be engaged in biting mouthfuls from such portions of
the baby's anatomy as were not hidden in its mother's embrace.
A clamor of voices breaking the Sabbath calm of the morning
brought Norine Evans running from her tent. One look, and its
cause was plain. Fifty men were talking loudly; fifty pairs of
arms were waving. In consequence of the torrent of words that beat
upon their ears it was some time before the merchant and his wife
could be made to fully understand the peculiar circumstances of
the kidnapping, and that no harm had been intended to their
darling. Slowly, bit by bit, they learned the truth, but even then
the mother could not look upon Leslie Branch without a menacing
dilation of the eyes and a peculiar expression of restrained
ferocity.
The father was more reasonable, however; once he was assured of
his daughter's safety, his thankfulness sought outlet. He began by
embracing every one within his reach. He kissed Norine, he kissed
O'Reilly, he kissed Judson, he made a rush at Leslie himself; but
the latter, suspicious of his intent, fled.
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