Were they all robbers—associates of the three who had assaulted me?
Had I chanced into one of those streets entirely abandoned to the thieving fraternity—such as may be found in European cities—where the guardians of the night do not dare to shew their faces?
This was my first impression, as I noted the angry looks and hostile attitude of those who came clustering around me.
It became quickly changed, as I listened to the phrase, fiercely vociferated in my ears:
“Dios y Libertad! Muera el Americano!”
The discomfited footpads had returned upon a new tack. They had seen my uniform, as it became uncloaked in the struggle; and, under a pretence of patriotism, were now about to take satisfaction for their discomfiture and disappointment.
By good fortune I was standing upon a spot where there was a tolerable light—thrown upon the street by a couple of lamps suspended near.
Had it been darker, I might have been set upon at once, and cut down, before I could distinguish my antagonists. But the light benefited me in a different way. It exposed to my new assailants a brace of Colt’s revolvers—one held in hand and ready to be discharged; the other ready to be drawn.
The knife was their weapon. I could see a dozen blades bared simultaneously around me; but to get to such close quarters would cost some of them their lives.
They had the sharpness to perceive it; and halting at several paces distance—formed a sort of irregular ring around me.