“Surrender!” shouted the sergeant, and approached the fugitive at a trot.
The Marquesito waited, and when the sergeant was twenty paces from him, he fired his gun and pierced him with a bullet.
“Hey, boys!” shouted the sergeant. “Here he is. Kill him!” Then he put his hand to his breast, began to bleed at the mouth, and fell from his horse murmuring, “Jesus! He’s killed me!”
One of the sergeant’s feet caught in the stirrup, and the horse, becoming frightened, dragged his rider’s body for some distance over the ground.
“Now it’s your turn, coward!” shouted the Marquesito, addressing the gentleman.
But that person had turned on his croup and couldn’t get away fast enough.
The youth began to think that he was safe: the blood was flowing copiously from his wound, so he took the handkerchief from about his neck and bound his leg firmly with it. Next, he reloaded his weapons, and limping slowly, sheltering himself behind the olive trees and glancing from side to side, he advanced.
When he had reached a little plaza formed by a space that was bare of trees, he saw one of the soldiers in ambush. Perhaps it was the last one.
When they saw each other, pursuer and pursued immediately took refuge behind the trees. The soldier fired; a ball whistled by the Marquesito’s head; then he rested his gun against a tree trunk, fired, and the soldier’s helmet fell to the ground.
They both concealed themselves while they reloaded their weapons, and for more than a quarter of an hour, they kept shooting at each other, neither of them making up his mind to come out into the open.