Though evidently resolved on keeping their ground they made no noise—with their knives and machetés only demonstrating in silence!
I saw their design. The patrol was passing along one of the principal streets. They knew that the least disturbance would attract it into the Callecito.
If silent, but for ten seconds, they would be safe to renew the attack; and I should then be lost—surely sacrificed!
What was to be done? Fire into their midst, commence the fracas, and, by so doing, summon the patrol to my rescue? Perhaps it would arrive in time to be too late—to take up my mangled corpse, and carry it to the cuartel?
I hesitated to tempt the attack.
Was there no other way, by which I could give warning to my countrymen?
O God! the hoof-trampling seemed gradually growing less distinct! No sound of bit, or spur, stirrup, or steel scabbard. They had passed the end of the Callecito. Ten seconds more, and they would be beyond hearing!
Ha! a happy thought! That night—I now remembered it—my own corps—the Rifle Rangers—constituted the street patrol. My first Serjeant would be at its head. Between him and me had long been established a code of signals—independent of those set for the bugler. By the favour of fortune, I had upon my person the means of making them—a common dog-call, that more than once, during the campaign, had stood me in good stead.
In another instant its shrill echoes resounded through the street, and were heard half-way across the City of the Angels.
If the devil himself had directed the signal, it could not have more effectually paralysed our opponents. They stood speechless—astounded!