“Men!” cries Seguin, rushing forward to the parapet, “take ladders! Search every house! Bring all forth, old and young. Bring them to the open plain. Leave not a corner unsearched. Bring me my child!”
The hunters rush for the ladders. They seize those of the great building, and soon possess themselves of others. They run from house to house, and drag out the screaming inmates.
There are Indian men in some of the houses—lagging braves, boys, and “dandies.” Some of these resist. They are slaughtered, scalped, and flung over the parapets.
Crowds arrive, guarded, in front of the temple: girls and women of all ages.
Seguin’s eye is busy; his heart is yearning. At the arrival of each new group, he scans their faces. In vain! Many of them are young and pretty, but brown as the fallen leaf. She is not yet brought up.
I see the three captive Mexicans standing with their friends. They should know where she may be found.
“Question them,” I whisper to the chief.
“Ha! you are right. I did not think of that. Come, come!”
We run together down the ladders, and approach the delivered captives. Seguin hurriedly describes the object of his search.
“It must be the Mystery Queen,” says one.