I need scarcely say what the sentiment was. It could only be that of profound gratitude—first to Francisco Moreno; and then to God for making such a noble man!
The thought that followed was but a consequence of this reflection. It was to save him who was risking his life to save me.
I was about to appeal to him to stand aside, and leave me to my fate. What good would it do for both to die? for I verily believed that death was at hand.
My purpose was not carried out; though its frustration came not from a craven fear. Very different was the cause that stayed my tongue.
As we stood silent—both defenders and those threatening to attack—a sound was borne upon the breeze, which caused the silence to be prolonged.
There could be no doubt as to the signification of this sound. Any one who has ever witnessed the spectacle of a troop of horse passing along a paved street, will recognise the noises that accompany it:—the continuous tramping of hoofs, the tinkling of curbs, and the occasional clank of a scabbard, as it strikes against spur or stirrup.
Such noises I recognised, as did every individual in the “Street of the Sparrows.”
“La guardia! La patrulla Americana!” (The guard! The American patrol!) was the muttered exclamations that came from the crowd.
My heart bounded with joy, and I was about to spring forth—thinking my assailants would now make way for me.
But no. They stood firm and close as a wall, maintaining their semicircle around the doorway.