"Forward! Forward!" the count cried.
The peons rushed with yells of anger against the barricade. The struggle began—a terrible, fearful struggle; for the peons knew that no quarter would be granted them by their ferocious adversaries, and they fought accordingly, performing prodigies of valour—not to conquer, for they did not believe that possible—but not to fall unavenged. Don Andrés had torn himself from the arms of his daughter, who tried in vain to retain him; and, only armed with a machete, boldly threw himself into the thickest of the fight. The attack of the peons was so impetuous, that the barricade was crossed at the first bound, and the two parties fought hand to hand, being too near each other to employ either guns or pistols.
The partizans stationed on the heights were necessarily reduced to inaction through fear of wounding their friends, as the two bands were so mixed up. Don Melchior was far from expecting such a vigorous resistance on the part of the peons: owing to the advantageous position he had chosen, he had believed the victory easy and reckoned on immediate submission. The event singularly deranged his calculations, and he was beginning to see the consequences of his action. Cuéllar, who would doubtless have forgiven an act of treachery accomplished without striking a blow, would not pardon him for letting his bravest soldiers be thus madly killed. These thoughts redoubled don Melchior's rage. The small troop, horribly decimated, now only counted a few men capable of fighting, the rest were either killed or wounded.
Don Andrés' horse had been killed and the old gentleman, though his blood poured from two wounds, did not the less continue to fight. All at once he uttered a fearful cry of despair: don Melchior had dashed with a tiger's bound into the centre of the group where doña Dolores had sought shelter. Hurling down all the peons who came in his way, don Melchior seized the girl, in spite of her resistance, threw her across his horse's neck, and clearing all obstacles, fled, without troubling himself further about the combat sustained by his comrades. The latter, on seeing themselves thus abandoned, gave up a fight which no longer possessed any object for them, and doubtless, in pursuance of an order previously given them, dispersed in all directions, leaving the peons at liberty to continue their journey to Puebla, if such were their desire. The abduction of doña Dolores had been so rapidly performed by don Melchior that no one noticed it at the first moment, and the cry of despair uttered by don Andrés alone gave the alarm. Without calculating the dangers to which they exposed themselves, the count and the majordomo dashed in pursuit of don Melchior. But the young man who was mounted on a valuable horse, had a considerable advance on their tired steeds, which was augmented every instant. Dominique cast a glance at don Andrés, who had thrown himself on the ground, and raised him gently saying, "Have good hopes, señor, I will save your daughter."
The old gentleman clasped his hands, and after looking at him with an expression of unspeakable gratitude fainted away. The vaquero remounted his horse, and driving his spurs into his flanks, he left don Andrés in the hands of his servants, and in his turn started in pursuit of the abductor. Shortly after the pursuit began, the vaquero acquired the certainty that don Melchior who was better mounted than himself and his comrades, would speedily be out of reach. The young man, who had hitherto galloped in a straight line across country, suddenly made a sharp whirl, as if an unforeseen obstacle had suddenly risen before him; and keeping to the right he seemed for some minutes desirous of reapproaching his pursuers. The latter then tried to bar his passage. Dominique stopped his horse and dismounted, and cocked his gun.
According to the direction don Melchior was following at this moment, he must pass within a hundred yards of him. The vaquero made the sign of the cross, shouldered his gun and pulled the trigger. Don Melchior's horse, struck in the head, rolled on the ground, dragging down the rider in its fall. At the same moment, some thirty partizans appeared in the distance, galloping at full speed toward the scene of the ambuscade. Cuéllar galloped at their head. Great as was the haste displayed by the count and the majordomo to reach the spot where don Melchior was lying, Cuéllar arrived, before them. Don Melchior rose, much hurt by his fall, and leaned down to his sister to help her to rise: doña Dolores had fainted.
"By heavens, señor," Cuéllar said in a rough voice, "you are a rude comrade, you practise treachery and ambushes with a rare talent, but may the fiend twist my neck sooner than he ought to do, if we ride any longer in company."
"You select your time badly for jesting, señor," don Melchior replied; "this young lady, who is my sister, has fainted."
"Whose fault is it," the partizans exclaimed brutally, "except your own? With the mere object of carrying her off for I know what purpose, you have had twenty of the most resolute men in my cuadrilla killed. But things shall not go on so. I will put them in order, I vow."
"What do you mean?" don Melchior asked haughtily.