I am not ashamed to acknowledge, that I called loudly for help—coupling my calls with the name of Francisco Moreno. A man, with death staring him in the teeth, may be excused for dropping a trifle of his dignity. I shouted like a respectable shopkeeper attacked by a gang of garotters.
The Street of the Sparrows was fatal to me only in promise; and for the second time fortune favoured my escape from it.
Help came; though not from the quarter so loudly solicited. Francisco’s door remained shut; at least it was not opened by him. It was thrown open by a score of Red Hats, who at that moment appeared entering the street.
At any other time the sight of these sanguinary allies would have caused me a thrill of antagonism. Now they seemed saints—as they proved saviours!
They had shown themselves in the nick of time. Carrasco and his compeers were close behind me—so close that the points of their machetés were within six inches of my spine.
On espying the Red Hats they retreated in the opposite direction—going off even faster than they had been following me!
Seeing myself disembarrassed of the danger, I advanced to meet my preservers. I had no idea of what they could be doing there; until I saw them stop in front of a house—where they demanded admittance.
The demand was made in a rude manner, and in terms of an unmistakeable determination to enter.
As no one opened the door, they commenced hammering upon it with the butts of their escopetas; for several of them were armed with this weapon.
The door finally gave way—having yielded at the hinges—and, swinging round, stood partially ajar.