“Upon him, camarados! He is loaded with doblones. Al tierra! Down with him!”
These words—not very loudly spoken—were succeeded by the sounds of a struggle, in which several men appeared to take part; five or six, as I could tell by the shuffling of their shoes upon the flagged pavement.
I no longer heard words; or only a few, that seemed spoken under restraint, and scarce louder than whispers!
Even he who had first called out appeared to have become suddenly silent!
For all that the struggle was continuing!
The street in which it was taking place was a sort of narrow passage—leading from one of the main thoroughfares towards the Piazza Grande—and not far from the entrance to the Calle del Obispo.
It was dimly illumined by a solitary lard lamp, whose feeble flickering only served to make the path more uncertain.
I had myself entered the lane—which chanced to be a near cut between the café to which I was returning, and the “calle” I had left behind. It was just as I had got into it that the cry fell upon my ears, followed by the challenge “Que cosa caballeros?”
The rest of the dialogue did not occupy ten seconds of time, before the conflict commenced; and, as the scene of strife was not more than ten paces from where I had paused, another half-score of seconds carried me up to the spot.
I had been thus prompt in rushing to the rescue, because I fancied that I knew the voice of the man who was being assaulted.