At the same instant there was a terrible explosion of cries, hootings and hisses, in which prevailed the shout of—"Long live Juárez! The hatchet! The hatchet!"
The hatchet is, in Mexico, the symbol of the federation. Shouting for the hatchet is the same thing as revolting, or, to speak more in accordance with classical phraseology, making a pronunciamiento. This shout for the hatchet at once ran from one rank along the other, became general, and ere long the confusion and the disorder were at their height. Juárez' partizans mingled with the troops, raised cries of death against the enemies whom they did not wish to let escape, sabres were drawn, lances couched, and a conflict became imminent.
"General, you must fly!" don Jaime said, hurriedly.
"Never," the President answered; "I will die with my friends."
"You will be massacred without succeeding in saving them; besides, look! They are deserting you themselves."
It was true; the President's friends had disbanded, and attempting flight in all directions.
"What is to be done?" the general exclaimed.
"Cut a way through," don Jaime answered, and without giving Miramón time for reflection, he shouted, in a thundering voice—"Forward!"
At the same instant the insurgents dashed with couched lances at the small group, of which Miramón formed the centre. There was a frightful medley for some minutes; don Jaime and his friends, who were well mounted, and more especially well armed, succeeded at length in cutting a passage, through which they dragged the general in their midst.
Then they set off at a mad gallop.