"All right!" don Melchior boldly replied, as he cocked his revolver, and drew his knife.
They rushed head foremost into the midst of the conspirators, striking right and left, and forcing a passage. Like most desperate actions, this one succeeded through its sheer madness. There was a gigantic melée, a frightful struggle for some minutes between the members, who were taken off their guard, and the two men who were resolved to escape, or perish with arms in their hands. Then the furious gallop of horses became audible, and a mocking voice shouting in the distance,—
"Farewell, for the present!"
Don Melchior and don Antonio were galloping at full speed along the Puebla road. All hope of catching them was lost: however, they had left sanguinary traces behind them—ten corpses lay on the ground.
"Stop!" don Adolfo shouted to the men who were running to their horses. "Let them fly. Don Melchior is condemned—his death is certain. But," he added, thoughtfully; "who can that accursed monk be?"
Leo Carral, the majordomo, leaned over to his ear.
"I recognized the monk," he said; "he was don Antonio de Cacerbar."
"Ah!" he said, passionately; "That man again!"
A few minutes later, a cavalcade, composed of about a dozen horsemen, were trotting sharply along the high road to the capital. This party was led by don Jaime, or Oliver, or Adolfo, whichever the reader may please to call him.