On crossing an eminence a sight suddenly burst upon us that caused us to leap in our saddles. Directly before us, and not a mile distant, rose a high round hill like a semi-globe, and from a small tower upon its top waved the standard of Mexico.
Long lines of uniformed men girdled the tower, formed in rank. Horsemen in bright dresses galloped up and down the hill. We could see the glitter of brazen helmets, and the glancing of a thousand bayonets. The burnished howitzer flashed in the sunbeams, and we could discern the cannoniers standing by their posts. Bugles were braying and drums rolling. So near were they that we could distinguish the call. They were sounding the “long roll!”
“Halt! Great Heaven!” cried Twing, jerking his horse upon its haunches; “we are riding into the enemy’s camp! Guide,” he added, turning fiercely to Raoul, and half-drawing his sword, “what’s this?”
“The hill, Major,” replied the soldier coolly, “is ‘El Telegrafo’. It is the Mexican head-quarters, I take it.”
“And, sir, what mean you? It is not a mile distant?”
“It is ten miles, Major.”
“Ten! Why, sir, I can trace the eagle upon that flag! It is not one mile, by Heaven!”
“By the eye, true; but by the road, Major, it is what I have said—ten miles. We passed the crossing of the barranca some time ago; there is no other before we reach El Plan.”
It was true. Although within range of the enemy’s lightest metal, we were ten miles off!
A vast chasm yawned between us and them. The next moment we were upon its brink, and, wheeling sharply to the right, we trotted on as fast as the rocky road would allow us.