The Guaycurus warriors leaped to their saddles, uttering frightful cries, and the massacre commenced.
In the first rank, near Tarou Niom, was Malco Diaz.
The eyes of the half-caste flashed with excitement. He dashed with extraordinary fury into the thickest of the mêlée.
By a movement—rather from instinct than by calculation—the Brazilians, after their entrenchments had been carried, had grouped themselves round Laura.
The young girl, kneeling on the ground, her hands clasped, was praying with fervour.
Poor Phoebe, her breast pierced by a lance, was writhing at her feet, in the last convulsions of agony.
There was something really grand in the spectacle offered by some twenty men or so, motionless, silent, keeping close together, and struggling desperately against a multitude of enemies; having made the sacrifice of their lives, but resolved to fight to the last gasp, and only to fall when dead.
Diogo and the marquis achieved prodigies of valour—the Indian with a supreme contempt of death, the white man with the rage of despair.
"Now, your Excellency," said the captain, mockingly, "do you still believe we shall be saved?"
Meanwhile the ranks of the Brazilians were being thinned more and more.