The fire was returned briskly by the enemy, all of whom wore the uniform of the Mexican regular infantry.
In the footsteps of the officers came, swiftly, four stalwart young sailormen, and now the American force had a footing on the roof.
At first none of the Mexicans thought of asking for quarter. One of the infantrymen, retreating before Dalzell's deftly handled sword, and fighting back with his rifle butt, retreated so close to the edge of the roof that, in another instant, he had fallen to the street below, breaking his neck.
Ere the last dozen Americans had succeeded in reaching the roof the fight was over, for the few Mexicans still able to fight suddenly threw down their rifles, shouting pleadingly:
"Piedad! piedad!" (pity).
"Accept all surrenders!" shouted Lieutenant Trent at the top of his voice.
Four quivering, frightened Mexicans accepted this mercy, standing huddled together, their eyes eloquent with fear.
The fight had been a short, but savage one. A glance at the roof's late defenders showed, including the man lying in the street below, eight dead Mexicans, one of whom was the boyish lieutenant of infantry who had commanded this detachment. Nine more were badly wounded. The four prisoners were the only able-bodied Mexicans left on the roof.
"Pardon, but shall we have time for our prayers?" asked one of the surrendered Mexicans, approaching Lieutenant Trent.
"Time for your prayers?" Trout repeated. "Take all the time you want."