Like a flash, she was down and standing on the bridge. She flattened herself against the hand rail to keep from being knocked off her feet. Men of the Revolution struggled by her, bravely contesting each step of the way. And now Pedro Tovar was beside her—losing his ground. And now the khaki of the government was on every side.
“Viva el Gobierno! Viva Domingo Morales!”
Los Salvadores were losing!
She saw more khaki-clad men running up from the tumbled-down church in the Plaza—running straight toward the bridge, toward Ricardo, helpless, but moving feebly now, turning his head from side to side as if in pain. They would cut at him as they passed!
Another cry, and she made her way back along the hand rail to where Tovar was swinging his black arms. Then on, beyond him, to where showed the top of the Revolution’s colours. A moment, and she had seized the bamboo pole, had unfurled the blue flag with its tricoloured cross. Then, facing about, with cries again, she pushed her way toward the black general.
“Viva la Revolución!” she cried.
Spent with their night march and with fighting, disheartened by retreat, the motley forces of Montilla and Tovar now beheld a girl at their front, waving aloft the flag of their cause. They hesitated; then, spurred by the sight, stood fast.
And now, with cheers from Alcantara’s men to announce a victory at the railroad bridge, there came the change of balance in that fight at the other. A moment and the government was retreating, not foot by foot, but quickly, up the gentle slope.
“Viva la Revolución!” was the whole shout now. And with a fearful grin on his black face, Pedro Tovar cried on the men, cursed them into fiercer fighting, struck them with the flat of his sabre.
And now the wavering blue flag was at the middle of the bridge, was on the farther slope, was almost to the man lying face downward on the approach—then, beside him.