A lantern burns by the sentinel. Its light, radiating to some distance, does not avail him—he sees them not!
A rustling noise at length reaches his ear. The “quien viva?” is upon his lips; but he lives not to utter the words. Half-a-dozen bowstrings twang simultaneously, and as many arrows bury themselves in his flesh. His heart is pierced, and he falls, almost without uttering a groan!
A stream of dark forms pours into the open gateway. The guard, but half awake, perish before they can lay hand upon their weapons!
And now the war-cry of the Wacoes peals out in earnest, and the hundreds of dark warriors rush like a torrent through the zaguan.
They enter the patio. The doors of the cuartos are besieged—soldiers, terrified to confusion, come forth in their shirts, and fall under the spears of their dusky assailants. Carbines and pistols crack on all sides, but those who fire do not live to reload them.
It was a short but terrible struggle—terrible while it lasted. There were shouts, and shots, and groans, mingling together—the deep voice of the vengeful leader, and the wild war-cry of his followers—the crashing of timber, as doors were broken through or forced from their hinges—the clashing of swords and spears, and the quick detonation of fire-arms. Oh! it was a terrible conflict!
It ends at length. An almost total silence follows. The warriors no longer utter their dread cry. Their soldier-enemies are destroyed. Every cuarto has been cleared of its inmates, who lie in bleeding heaps over the patio and by the doors. No quarter has been given. All have been killed on the spot.
No—not all. There are two who survive—two whose lives have been spared. Vizcarra and Roblado yet live!
Piles of wood are now heaped against the timber posterns of the building, and set on fire. Volumes of smoke roll to the sky, mingling with sheets of red flame. The huge pine-beams of the azotea catch the blaze, burn, crackle, and fall inwards, and in a short while the Presidio becomes a mass of smoking ruins!