“He leaped aside, lowering his port-fire, and a burst of flame darted out of the muzzle of the gun lashed on the man’s back.
“Then Gaspar Ruiz lowered himself slowly. ‘Good shot?’ he asked.
“‘Full on, senor.’
“‘Then load again.’
“He lay there before me on his breast under the darkly glittering bronze of his monstrous burden, such as no love or strength of man had ever had to bear in the lamentable history of the world. His arms were spread out, and he resembled a prostrate penitent on the moonlit ground.
“Again I saw him raised to his hands and knees, and the men stand away from him, and old Jorge stoop, glancing along the gun.
“‘Left a little. Right an inch. Por Dios, senor, stop this trembling. Where is your strength?’
“The old gunner’s voice was cracked with emotion. He stepped aside, and quick as lightning brought the spark to the touch-hole.
“‘Excellent!’ he cried tearfully; but Gaspar Ruiz lay for a long time silent, flattened on the ground.
“‘I am tired,’ he murmured at last. ‘Will another shot do it?’