"Surrender!" cried the general. "It is a pity to kill so brave a man!"
Santiago laughed lightly, dug the spurs deep into his horse's sides, cleared a passage with his sabre, and wheeling his horse by the pressure of his knees, bounded away, crying defiantly,—
"Rally to the flag! Viva el Rey!"
A young Colombian officer levelled his pistol; but Miller struck it up, saying,—
"The odds are heavy enough now. If you want the flag, get it with your sword."
The youngster's face flushed, but he kept his temper, and saluting the general, dashed after Santiago, crying,—
"To me, Colombians!"
As Suares had foreseen, our action gave the beaten squadron a chance to rally; officers and men who had survived the crushing avalanche collected in groups, and the fight was proceeding fiercely on the open plain. Ordering our squadron to re-form, the general placed himself at our head.
Meanwhile, I was watching the gallant Santiago and his handful of men. He was a superb rider, and able to guide his horse without using the reins, thus leaving both hands free. His Royalist comrades, now reunited, were opposite the defile, and too far off to help, while several detachments of Patriot cavalry were hurrying to cut off his retreat. Behind him, too, thundered the hot-headed Colombian officer with a dozen troopers.
"That plucky Royalist officer will be killed," said the general to Colonel Suares. "He's a gallant fellow—eh, Crawford?"