“Close by, S’nor. I saw them round a great camp-fire up in the mountains. They’re not there now. I came on to tell you. I ran as fast as ever I was able, but they’ve been following. I could hear the tramp of their horses behind all the way. They must be near at hand now. Hark!”
“Patria y Libertad!”
The cry came from without, in the tone of a charging shibboleth, other voices adding, “Mueran los tyrannos!”
Instantaneously succeeded by the cracking of carbines, with shouts, and the clash of steel against steel—the sounds of a hand-to-hand fight, which the stamping and snorting of horses proclaimed between cavalry.
Never was conflict of shorter duration; over almost before they in the courtyard could realise its having commenced. The confused sounds of the mêlée lasted barely a minute when a loud huzza, drowning the hoof-strokes of the retreating horses, told that victory had declared itself for one side or the other. They who listened were not long in doubt as to which sent up that triumphant cheer. Through the front gate, standing open, burst a mass of mounted men, some carrying lances couched for the thrust, others with drawn sabres, many of their blades dripping blood. On came they into the courtyard, still vociferating: “Mueran los tyrannos!” while he at their head, soon as showing himself, called out in a commanding voice, “Rendite?”
By this a change had taken place in the tableau of figures beside the carriage. The Hussars having reined back, had gathered in a ruck around their colonel, irresolute how to act. Equally unresolved he to order them. That cry, “Country and Liberty,” had struck terror to his heart; and now seeing those it came from, recognising the three who rode foremost—as in the clear moonlight he could—the blood of the craven ran cold. They were the men he had subjected to insult, direct degradation; and he need look for no mercy at their hands. With a spark of manhood, even such as despair sometimes inspires, he would have shown fight. Major Ramirez would, and did; for at the first alarm he had galloped out to the gate and there met death.
Not so Santander, who, although he had taken his sword out of its scabbard, made no attempt to use it, but sat shivering in his saddle, as if the weapon was about to drop from his hand.
On the instant after a blade more firmly held, and better wielded, flashed before his eyes; he who held it, as he sprung his horse up, crying out:
“Carlos Santander! your hour has come! Scoundrel! This time I intend killing you.”
Even the insulting threat stung him not to resistance. Never shone moonlight on more of a poltroon, the glitter and grandeur of his warlike dress in striking contrast with his cowardly mien.