Gustave Aimard
The Buccaneer Chief: A Romance of the Spanish Main

"Certainly; they will be of the greatest use to you in watching the enemy; but hide them carefully."

"All right," he said.

At this moment Michael the Basque rushed suddenly into the cabin, with his features distorted by passion.

"What is the matter, messmate? Come, recover yourself," Montbarts said coolly to him.

"A great misfortune has happened to us," Michael exclaimed, as he passionately pulled out a handful of hair.

"What is it? Come, speak like a man, messmate."

"That villain, Antonio de la Ronda – "

"Well?" Montbarts interrupted, with a nervous tremor.

"He has escaped!"

"Malediction!"

"Ten men have set out in pursuit."

"Stuff! It is all up now; they will not catch him. What is to be done?"

"What has happened?" Lepoletais asked.

"Our guide has escaped."

"Is it only that? I promise to find you another."

"Yes, but this one is probably the cleverest spy the Spaniards possess; he knows enough of our secrets to make our expedition fail."

"Heaven preserve us from it! Stuff!" the buccaneer added, carelessly – "Think no more about it, brother; what is done is done – let us go ahead all the same."

And he left the cabin, apparently quite unaffected by the news.

CHAPTER XXV
FRAY ARSENIO

Let us now tell the reader who these buccaneers were of whom we have several times spoken, and what was the origin of the name given them, and which they gave themselves.

The red Caribs of the Antilles were accustomed, when they made prisoners in the obstinate contests they waged with each other, or which they carried on against the whites, to cut their prisoners into small pieces, and lay them upon a species of small hurdles, under which they lit a fire.

These hurdles were called barbacoas, the spot where they were set up boucans, and the operation boucaning, to signify at the same time roasting and smoking.

It was from this that the French boucaniers (anglicised into buccaneers) derived their name, with this difference, that they did to animals what the others did to men.

The first buccaneers were Spanish settlers on the Caribbean islands, who lived on intimate terms with the Indians; hence when they turned their attention to the chase, they accustomed themselves without reflection to employ these Indian terms, which were certainly characteristic, and for which it would have been difficult to substitute any others.

The buccaneers carried on no other trade but hunting; they were divided into two classes, the first only hunting oxen to get their hides, the second killing boars, whose flesh they salted and sold to the planters.

These two varieties of buccaneers were accoutred nearly in the same way, and had the same mode of life.

The real buccaneers were those who pursued oxen, and they never called the others by any name but hunters.

Their equipage consisted of a pack of twenty-four dogs, among which were two bloodhounds, whose duty it was to discover the animal; the price of these dogs, settled among themselves, was thirty livres.

As we have said, their weapon was a long fusil, manufactured at Dieppe or Nantes; they always hunted together, two at the least, but sometimes more, and then everything was in common between them. As we advance in the history of these singular men, we shall enter into fuller details about their mode of life and strange habits.

When Don Sancho and the Major-domo left them, Lepoletais and L'Olonnais had for a long time looked with a mocking glance after the two Spaniards, and then went on building their ajoupa and preparing their boucan, as if nothing had happened. So soon as the boucan was arranged, the fire lit, and the meat laid on the barbacoas, L'Olonnais set about curing the hide he had brought with him, while Lepoletais did the same to that of the bull which he had killed an hour previously.

He stretched the hide out on the ground, with the hairy side up, fastened it down by sixty-four pegs, driven into the earth, and then rubbed it vigorously with a mixture of ashes and salt, to make it dry more quickly.

This duly accomplished, he turned his attention to supper, the preparations for which were neither long nor complicated. A piece of meat had been placed in a small cauldron, with water and salt, and soon boiled; L'Olonnais drew it out by means of a long pointed stick, and laid it on a palm leaf in lieu of a dish; then he collected the grease with a wooden spoon, and threw it into a calabash. Into this grease he squeezed the juice of a lemon, added a little pimento, stirred it all up, and the sauce, the famous pimentado, so liked by the buccaneers, was ready. Placing the meat in a pleasant spot in front of the ajoupa, with the calabash by its side, he called Lepoletais, and the men sitting down facing each other, armed themselves with their knife and a wooden spit instead of a fork, and began eating with a good appetite, carefully dipping each mouthful of meat in the pimentado, and surrounded by their dogs, which, though not daring to ask for anything, fixed greedy glances on the provisions spread out before them, and followed with eager eyes every morsel swallowed by the adventurers.

They had been eating this in silence for some time, when the bloodhounds raised their heads, inhaling the air restlessly, and then gave several hoarse growls; almost immediately the whole pack began barking furiously.

"Eh, eh!" Lepoletais said, after drinking a mouthful of brandy and water, and handing the gourd to the engagé, "What is the meaning of this?"

"Some traveller, no doubt," L'Olonnais answered carelessly.

"At this hour," the buccaneer went on, as he raised his eyes to the sky, and consulted the stars, "why hang it all, it is past eight o'clock at night."

"Zounds! I do not know what it is. But stay, I do not know whether I am mistaken, for I fancy I can hear a horse galloping."

"It is really true, my son, you are not mistaken," the buccaneer continued, "it is indeed a horse; come, quiet, you devils," he shouted, addressing the dogs, which had redoubled their barking, and seemed ready to rush forward, "quiet, lie down, you ruffians."

The dogs, doubtless accustomed for a long time to obey the imperious accents of this voice, immediately resumed their places, and ceased their deafening clamour, although they still continued to growl dully.

In the meanwhile the galloping horses which the dogs had heard a great distance off, rapidly drew nearer; it soon became perfectly distinct, and at the end of a few minutes a horseman emerged from the forest, and became visible, although owing to the darkness it was not yet possible to see who this man might be.

On turning into the savannah, he stopped his horse, seemed to look around him, with an air of indecision, for some minutes, then, loosening the rein again, he came up toward the boucan at a sharp trot.

On reaching the two men, who continued their supper quietly, while keeping an eye on him, he bowed, and addressed them in Spanish —

"Worthy friends," he said to them, "whoever you may be, I ask you, in the name of the Lord, to grant a traveller, who has lost his way, hospitality for this night."

"Here is fire, and here is meat," the buccaneer replied, laconically, in the same language the traveller had employed; "rest yourself, and eat."

"I thank you," he said.

He dismounted: in the movement he made to leave the saddle, his cloak flew open, and the buccaneers perceived that the man was dressed in a religious garb. This discovery surprised them, though they did not allow it to be seen.

On his side the stranger gave a start of terror, which was immediately suppressed, on perceiving that in his precipitation to seek a shelter for the night, he had come upon a boucan of French adventurers.

The latter, however, had made him a place by their side, and while he was hobbling his horse, and removing its bridle, so that it might graze on the tall close grass of the savannah, they had placed for him, on a palm leaf, a lump of meat sufficient to still the appetite of a man who had been fasting for four and twenty hours.

Somewhat reassured by the cordial manner of the adventurers, and, in his impossibility to do otherwise, bravely resolving to accept the awkward situation in which his awkwardness had placed him, the stranger sat down between his two hosts, and began to eat, while reflecting on the means of escaping from the difficult position in which he found himself.

The adventurers, who had almost completed their meal before his arrival, left off eating long before him; they gave their dogs the food they had been expecting with so much impatience, then lit their pipes, and began smoking, paying no further attention to their guest beyond handing him the things he required.

At length the stranger wiped his mouth, and, in order to prove to his hosts that he was quite as much at his ease as they, he produced a leaf of paper and tobacco, delicately rolled a cigarette, lit it, and smoked apparently as calmly as themselves.

"I thank you for your generous hospitality, señores," he said, presently, understanding that along silence might be interpreted to his disadvantage, "I had a great necessity to recruit my strength, for I have been fasting since the morning."

"That is very imprudent, señor," Lepoletais answered, "to embark thus without any biscuit, as we sailors say; the savannah is somewhat like the sea, you know when you start on it, but you never know when you will leave it again."

"What you say is perfectly true, señor; had it not been for you, I am afraid I should have passed a very bad night."

"Pray say no more about that, señor; we have only done for you what we should wish to be done for us under similar circumstances. Hospitality is a sacred duty, which no one has a right to avoid: besides, you are a palpable proof of it."

"How so?"

"Why, you are a Spaniard, if I am not mistaken, while we, on the contrary, are French. Well, we forget for the moment our hatred of your nation, to welcome you at our fireside, as every guest sent by Heaven has the right to be received."

"That is true, señor, and I thank you doubly, be assured."

"Good Heavens!" the buccaneer replied, "I assure you that you act wrongly in dwelling so much on this subject. What we are doing at this moment is as much for you as in behalf of our honour, hence I beg you, señor, not to say any more about it, for it is really not worth the trouble."

"Bless me, señor," L'Olonnais said with a laugh, "why, we are old acquaintances, though you little suspect it, I fancy."

"Old acquaintances!" the stranger exclaimed, in surprise; "I do not understand you, señor."

"And yet what I am saying is very clear."

"If you would deign to explain," the stranger replied, completely thrown on his beam ends, as Lepoletais would have said, "perhaps I shall understand, which, I assure you, will cause me great pleasure."

"I wish for nothing better than to explain myself, señor," L'Olonnais said, with a bantering air; "and in the first place, permit me to observe, that, though your cloak is so carefully buttoned, it is not sufficiently so to conceal the Franciscan garb you wear under it."

"I am indeed a monk of that order," the stranger answered, rather disconcerted; "but that does not prove that you know me."

"Granted, but I am certain that I shall bring back your recollection by a single word."

"I fancy you are mistaken, my dear señor, and that we never saw each other before."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Man, as you are aware, can never be sure of anything; still, it seems to me – "

"And yet, it is so long since we met; it is true that you possibly did not pay any great attention to me."

"On my honour, I know not what you mean," the monk remarked after attentively examining him for a minute or two.

"Come," the engagé said with a laugh, "I will take pity on your embarrassment; and, as I promised you, dissipate all your doubts by a single word; we saw each other on the island of Nevis. Do you remember me?"

At this revelation, the monk turned pale; he lost countenance, and for some minutes remained as if petrified; still the thought of denying the truth did not come to him for a second.

"Where," L'Olonnais added, "you had a long conversation with Montbarts."

"Still," the monk said with a hesitation that was not exempt from terror, "I do not understand – "

"How I knew everything," L'Olonnais interrupted him laughingly, "then, you have not got to the end of your astonishment."

"What, I am not at the end?"

"Bah, Señor Padre, do you fancy that I should have taken the trouble to bother you about such a trifle? I know a good deal more."

"What do you say?" the monk exclaimed, recoiling instinctively from this man whom he was not indisposed to regard as a sorcerer, the more so because he was a Frenchman, and a buccaneer to boot, two peremptory reasons why Satan should nearly be master of his soul, if by chance he possessed one, which the worthy monk greatly doubted.

"Zounds!" the engagé resumed, "You suppose, I think, that I do not know the motive of your journey, the spot where you have come from, where you are going, and more than that, the person you are about to see."

"Oh, come, that is impossible," the monk said with a startled look.

Lepoletais laughed inwardly at the ill-disguised terror of the Spaniard.

"Take care, father," he whispered mysteriously in Fray Arsenio's ear, "that man knows everything; between ourselves, I believe him to be possessed by the demon."

"Oh!" he exclaimed, rising hastily and crossing himself repeatedly, which caused the adventurers a still heartier laugh.

"Come, resume your seat and listen to me," L'Olonnais continued as he seized him by the arm, and obliged him to sit down again, "my friend and I are only joking."

"Excuse me, noble caballeros," the monk stammered, "I am in an extraordinary hurry, and must leave you at once, though most reluctantly."

"Nonsense! Where could you go alone at this hour? Fall into a bog. Eh?"

This far from pleasant prospect caused the monk to reflect; still, the terror he felt was the stronger.

"No matter," he said, "I must be gone."

"Nonsense, you will never find your road to the hatto del Rincón in this darkness."

This time the monk was fairly conquered, this new revelation literally benumbed him, he fancied himself suffering from a terrible nightmare, and did not attempt to continue an impossible struggle.

"There," the engagé resumed, "now, you are reasonable; rest yourself, I will not torment you any more, and in order to prove to you that I am not so wicked as you suppose me, I undertake to find you a guide."

"A guide," Fray Arsenio stammered, "Heaven guard me from accepting one at your hand."

"Reassure yourself, señor Padre, it will not be a demon, though he may possibly have some moral and physical resemblance with the evil spirit; the guide I refer to is very simply a Carib."

"Ah!" said the monk drawing a deep breath, as if a heavy weight had been removed from his chest, "If he is really a Carib."

"Zounds! Who the deuce would you have it be?" Fray Arsenio crossed himself devoutly.

"Excuse me," he said, "I did not wish to insult you."

"Come, come, have patience, I will go myself and fetch the promised guide, for I see that you are really in a hurry to part company."

L'Olonnais rose, took his fusil, whistled to a bloodhound, and went off at a rapid pace.

"You will now be able," said Lepoletais, "to continue your journey without fear of going astray."

"Has that worthy caballero really gone to fetch me a guide, as he promised?" Fray Arsenio asked, who did not dare to place full confidence in the engagé's word.

"Hang it! I know no other reason why he should leave the boucan."

"Then you are really a buccaneer, señor?"

"At your service, padre."

"Ah, ah! And do you often come to these parts?"

"Deuce take me if I do not believe you are questioning me, monk," Lepoletais said with a frown, and looking him in the face; "how does it concern you whether I come here or not?"

"Me? Not at all."

"That is true, but it may concern others, may it not? And you would not be sorry to know the truth."

"Oh? can you suppose such a thing?" Fray Arsenio hastily said.

"I do not suppose, by Heaven, I know exactly what I am saying, but, believe me, señor monk, you had better give up this habit of questioning, especially with buccaneers, people who through their character, do not like questions, or else you might some day run the risk of being played an ugly trick. It is only a simple piece of advice I venture to give you."

"Thank you, señor, I will bear it in mind, though in saying what I did, I had not the intention you suppose."

"All the better, but still profit by my hint."

Thus rebuffed, the monk shut himself up in a timid silence; and in order to give a turn to his thoughts which, we are bound to say, were anything but rosy colored at this moment, he took up the rosary hanging from his girdle, and began muttering prayers in a low voice.

Nearly an hour passed then without a word being exchanged between the two men; Lepoletais cut up tobacco, while humming a tune, and the monk prayed, or seemed to be doing so.

At length a slight noise was heard a short distance off, and a few minutes later the engagé appeared, followed by an Indian, who was no other than Omopoua, the Carib chief.

"Quick, quick, señor monk," L'Olonnais said gaily; "here is your guide, I answer for his fidelity; he will lead you in safety within two gun shots of the hatto."

The monk did not let the invitation be repeated, for anything seemed to him preferable to remaining any longer in the company of these two reprobates; besides, he thought that he had nothing to fear from an Indian.

He rose at one bound, and bridled his horse again, which had made an excellent supper, and had had all the time necessary to rest.

"Señores," he said, so soon as he was in the saddle, "I thank you for your generous hospitality, may the blessing of the Lord be upon you!"

"Thanks," the engagé replied with a laugh, "but one last hint before parting; on arriving at the hatto, do not forget to tell Doña Clara from me, that I shall expect her here tomorrow; do you hear?"

The monk uttered a cry of terror; without replying, he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and set off at a gallop, in the direction where the Carib was already going, with that quick, elastic step, with which a horse has a difficulty in keeping up.

The two buccaneers watched his flight with a hearty laugh, then, stretching out their feet to the fire, and laying their weapons within reach, they prepared to sleep, guarded by their dogs, vigilant sentries that would not let them be surprised.

CHAPTER XXVI
THE CONSEQUENCES OF A MEETING

Fray Arsenio followed his silent guide delightedly, although he was surrendered into the hands of an Indian, who must instinctively hate the Spaniards, those ferocious oppressors of his decimated and almost destroyed race. Still, the monk was glad at having escaped safe and sound from the clutches of the adventurers, whom he feared not only as ladrones, that is to say, men without faith and steeped in vice, but also as demons, or at the least sorcerers in regular connection with Satan, for such were the erroneous ideas which the most enlightened of the Spaniards entertained about the filibusters and buccaneers.

It had needed all the devotion which the monk professed for Doña Clara, and all the ascendancy that charming woman possessed over those who approached her, to make him consent to execute a plan so mad in his opinion, as that of entering into direct relation with one of the most renowned chiefs of the filibusters, and it was with a great tremor that he had accompanied his penitent to Nevis.

When we met him, he was proceeding to the hatto, to inform Doña Clara, as had been arranged between them, of the arrival of the filibustering squadron at Port Margot, and consequently of Montbart's presence in the island of Saint Domingo.

Unfortunately the monk, but little used to night journeys, across untrodden roads which he must guess at every step, lost himself on the savannah; overcome with terror, almost dead with hunger, and worn out by fatigue, the monk had seen the light of a fire flashing a short distance off; the sight of this had restored him hope, if not courage, and he had consequently ridden as fast as he could toward the fire, and tumbled headlong into a boucan of French adventurers.

In doing this, he unconsciously followed the example of the silly moth, which feels itself irresistibly attracted to the candle in which it singes its wings.

More fortunate than these insects, the monk had burned nothing at all; he had rested, eaten and drunk well, and, apart from a very honest terror at finding himself so unexpectedly in such company, he had escaped pretty well, or at least he supposed so, from this great danger, and had even succeeded in obtaining a guide. Everything, then, was for the best, the Lord had not ceased to watch over His servant, and the latter only needed to let himself be guarded by Him. Moreover the monk's confidence was augmented by the taciturn carelessness of his guide who, without uttering a syllable, or even appearing to trouble himself about him the least in the world, walked in front of his horse, crossing the savannah obliquely, making a way through the tall grass, and seemed to direct himself as surely amid the darkness that surrounded him, as if he had been lit by the dazzling sunbeams.

They went on thus for a long time following each other without the interchange of a word; like all the Spaniards, Fray Arsenio professed a profound contempt for the Indians, and it was much against his will that he ever entered into relations with them. For his part, the Carib was not at all anxious to carry on with this man, whom he regarded as a born foe of his race, a conversation which could only be an unimportant gossip.

They had reached the top of a small hill, from which could be seen gleaming in the distance, like so many luminous dots, the watch fires of the soldiers encamped round the hatto, when all at once, instead of descending the hill and continuing his advance, Omopoua stopped, and looked round him anxiously, while strongly inhaling the air, and ordering the Spaniard by a wave of his hand to halt.

The latter obeyed and remained motionless as an equestrian statue, while observing with a curiosity blended with a certain amount of discomfort, the manoeuvres of his guide.

The Carib had laid himself down and was listening with his ear to the ground.

At the end of a few minutes he rose again, though he did not cease listening.

"What is the matter?" the monk, whom this conduct was beginning seriously to alarm, asked.

"Horsemen are coming towards us at full speed."

"Horsemen at this hour of night on the savannah?" Fray Arsenio remarked incredulously; "It is impossible."

"Why, you are here?" the Indian said with a jeering smile.

"Hum! That is true," the monk muttered, struck by the logic of the answer; "who can they be!"

"I do not know, but I will soon tell you," the Carib answered.

And before the monk had the time to ask him what his scheme was, Omopoua glided through the tall grass and disappeared, leaving Fray Arsenio greatly disconcerted at this sudden flight, and extremely annoyed at finding himself thus left alone in the middle of the desert.

A few minutes elapsed, during which the monk tried, though in vain, to hear the sound which the Indian's sharp sense of hearing had caused him to catch long before, amid the confused rumours of the savannah.

The monk, believing himself decidedly deserted by his guide, was preparing to continue his journey, leaving to Providence the care of bringing him safely into port, when he heard a slight rustling in the bushes close to him, and the Indian reappeared.

"I have seen them," he said.

"Ah!" the monk replied; "And who are they?"

"White men like you."

"Spaniards in that case?"

"Yes, Spaniards."

"All the better," Fray Arsenio continued, whom the good news completely reassured; "are they numerous?"

"Five or six at least; they are proceeding like yourself, towards the hatto, where, as far as I could understand, they are very eager to arrive."

"That is famous; where are they at this moment?"

"Two stones' throw at the most. According to the direction they are following, they will pass the spot where you are now standing."

"Better still. In that case we have only to wait."

"You can do so, if you think proper; but I have no wish to meet them."

"That is true, my friend," the monk remarked, with a paternal air. "And possibly such a meeting would not be agreeable to you; so pray accept my thanks for the manner in which you have guided me hitherto."

"You are quite resolved on waiting for them, then? If you like, I can enable you to avoid them."

"I have no motive for concealing myself from men of my own colour. Whoever they may be, I feel sure that I shall find friends in them."

"Very good. Your affairs concern yourself, and I have nothing to do with them. But the sound is drawing nearer, and as they will speedily arrive, I will leave you, for it is unnecessary for them to find me here."

"Farewell."

"One last recommendation: if by chance they had a fancy to ask who served as your guide, do not tell them."

"It is not at all probable they will ask this."

"No matter. Promise me, if they do, to keep my secret."

"Very good. I will be silent, since you wish it; although I do not understand the motive for such a recommendation."

The monk had not finished the sentence, ere the Indian disappeared.

The horsemen were rapidly approaching. The galloping of their steeds echoed on the ground like the rolling of thunder. Suddenly several shadows, scarcely distinguishable in the obscurity, rose as it were in the midst of the darkness, and a sharp voice shouted —

"Who goes there?"

"A friend!" the monk answered.

"Tell your name, ¡sangre de Dios!" the voice repeated, passionately, while the dry snap of a pistol being cocked, sounded disagreeably in the monk's ears. "At night there are friends in the desert!"

"I am a poor Franciscan monk, proceeding to the hatto del Rincón; and my name is Fray Arsenio Mendoza."

A hoarse cry replied to the monk's words – a cry whose meaning he had not the time to conjecture; that is to say, whether it was the result of pleasure or anger; for the horsemen came up with him like lightning, and surrounded him even before he could understand the reason of such a headlong speed to reach him.

"Why, señores," he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion, "what is the meaning of this? Have I to do with the ladrones?"

"Good! Good! Calm yourself, Señor Padre," a rough voice answered, which he fancied he recognised. "We are not ladrones, but Spaniards like yourself; and nothing could cause us more pleasure than meeting you at this moment."

"I am delighted at what you say to me, caballero. I confess that at first the suddenness of your movements alarmed me; but now I am completely reassured."

"All the better," the stranger replied, ironically; "for I want to talk with you."

"Talk with me, señor?" he said, with surprise.

"The spot and the hour are badly chosen for an interview, I fancy. If you will wait till we reach the hatto, I will place myself at your disposal."

"Enough talking. Get off your horse," the stranger observed, roughly; "unless you wish me to drag you off."

The monk took a startled glance around him, but the horsemen looked at him savagely, and did not appear disposed to come to his help.

Fray Arsenio, through profession and temperament, was quite the opposite of a brave man. The way in which the adventure began was commencing seriously to alarm him. He did not yet know into what hands he had fallen, but everything led him to suppose that these individuals, whoever they might be, were not actuated by kindly feelings towards him. Still any resistance was impossible, and he resigned himself to obey; but it was not without a sigh of regret, intended for the Carib, whose judicious advice he had spurned, that he at length got off his horse, and placed himself in front of his stern questioner.

"Light a torch!" the strange horseman said. "I wish this man to recognise me, so that, knowing who I am, he may be aware that he cannot employ any subterfuge with me, and that frankness alone will save him from the fate that menaces him."

The monk understood less and less. He really believed himself suffering from an atrocious nightmare.

By the horseman's orders, however, one of his suite had lighted a torch of ocote wood.

So soon as the flame played over the stranger's feature, and illumined his face, the monk gave a start of surprise, and clasped his hands at the same time as his countenance suddenly reassumed its serenity.

"Heaven be praised!" he said, with an accent of beatitude impossible to render. "Is it possible that it can be you, Don. Stenio de Bejar? I was so far from believing that I should have the felicity of meeting you this night, Señor Conde, that, on my faith, I did not recognise you, and felt almost frightened."

The Count, for it was really he whom the monk had so unfortunately met, did not answer for the moment, but contented himself with smiling.

Don Stenio de Bejar, who had left Saint Domingo at full speed, for the purpose of going to the hatto del Rincón, in order to convince himself of the truth of the information given him by Don Antonio de la Ronda, thus found himself, by the greatest accident, just as he was reaching his destination, and when he least expected it, face to face with Fray Arsenio Mendoza; that is to say, with the only man capable of proving to him peremptorily the truth or falsehood of the assertions of the spy, who had denounced Doña Clara to her husband.

Fray Arsenio's reputation for poltroonery had long been current among his countrymen, and hence nothing seemed more easy than to obtain from him the truth in its fullest details.

The Count believed himself almost certain, by employing intimidation, to make Fray Arsenio confess what he knew: hence, so soon as the latter had mentioned his name, Don Stenio, warned by the spy, who rode at his side, resolved to terrify the monk, and thus render it impossible for him to resist the orders he might intimate to him.