“Sergente!” asks Uraga, on coming forth from his tent, “is everything ready?”
“All ready,” is the prompt reply.
“Attention!” commands the Colonel, stepping a pace or two forward, and speaking in a low tone, though loud enough to be heard by the lancers.
“Make ready!”
The carbines are raised to the ready.
“Take aim!”
The guns are brought to the level, their bronzed barrels glistening under the rays of the setting sun, with muzzles pointed at the prisoners. They who grasp them but wait for the word “Fire!”
It is forming itself on Gil Uraga’s lips. But before he can speak there comes a volley, filling the valley with sound, and the space around the prisoners with smoke. The reports of more than forty pieces speak almost simultaneously, none of them with the dull detonation of cavalry carbines, but the sharper ring of the rifle!
While the last crack is still reverberating from the rocks, Uraga sees his line of lancers prostrate along the sward; their guns, escaped from their grasp, scattered beside them, still undischarged!