Our blades met—the sparks crackled along the creasing steel, and the combat began.
Fortunate for me, that, in avoiding the first lunge of my antagonist, I had to turn half round: fortunately I turned so soon, else I should never have left that glade alive.
As I faced in the new direction, I saw two men running towards us, sword in hand. A single glance told me they were guerrilleros. They were already within ten paces of the spot, and must have been seen long before by Ijurra.
This was the key to his altered demeanour. Their approach it was that had inspired him with courage to begin the fight—for he had calculated the time when they should be able to get up, and assail me from behind.
“Hola!” shouted he, seeing that I had discovered them—“Hola! El Zorro—José! anda! anda! Mueran los Yankies! at muerte con el picaro!”
For the first time, I felt myself in danger. Three swords to one was awkward odds; and the red giant, with a companion nearly as large as himself, would no doubt prove very different antagonists from the poltroon with whom I was engaged.
Yes, I was conscious of danger, and might have retreated, had I deemed such a course possible; but my horse was too far off, and the new-comers were directly in the path I should have to take to reach him. I could not hope to escape on foot; I well knew that these men run as lightly as Indians, for we had often proved their capacity in that accomplishment. They were already too near. I should be overtaken, struck down, pierced, with my back to the foe.
I had no time to reflect—just enough to leap back a pace or two, so as to bring all three of them in front of me, when I found my sword clashing against their blades, and parrying their blows one after the other.
I can describe the unequal combat no farther. It was a confused medley of cut and thrust, in which I both gave wounds and received them. I was wounded in several places, and felt the warm blood running under my clothes and over my face.
I grew wearied to death, and every second growing weaker and fainter.