I was right. It was Francisco Moreno!
I found him in the midst of five men, forming a sort of quincunx around him; against all five of whom he was industriously defending himself; while they were as busy in the endeavour to get him down.
They were all armed with machetés; while he wielded a sword, which he had drawn from under his cloak.
I could see that the attacking party carried pistols, but did not attempt to use them—perhaps from fear of causing an alarm, and thus defeating their purpose: to all appearance plunder!
I was not so chary about the discharging of mine. The moment I caught sight of the Red Hats—for the assailants were so distinguished—I had a clear comprehension of the sort of gentry with whom the Mexican had to deal, as well as the character of the attack.
The blood ran scalding within my veins. But that very day I had been sickened at hearing the details of an atrocity, committed by these precious pets of our commander-in-chief; and I had mentally vowed, if I should ever chance to catch one of them at their tricks, to make short work with him.
The chance had come sooner than I expected; and I remembered my vow.
The shout with which I interrupted their pastime was almost loud enough to hinder them from hearing the report of my pistol; but one of them caught the bullet that came out of it, and went groaning into the gutter.
I might have shot down a second, or even a third, before they could get out of the way; though they were anything but slow in making disappearance.
I was satisfied with having put an end to one: for this had I done, as was evident from the silent lump of humanity that lay doubled up along the stones.