Nor was the noise confined to this one particular species of sound; men of leathern lungs bellowed upon the streets, sometimes singly, anon in chorus, guns were fired, and horns blown as vigorously as though it were the Angel Gabriel with his trumpet on resurrection day.
Altogether, the ringing of the alcalde’s bell, sending those sharp, strident notes, appeared to have been a signal success, if one could count the noises of pandemonium as a criterion.
Of course, all this must have an effect on the forces by whom we were assailed.
Would they consider it an encouragement to continue their attack—that the whole city was up in arms, determined that this time the Americans, the hated Gringoes, should not escape scot-free?
If so, of what avail would Robbins’ anvil chorus be—surely, we had our hands full as it was, without fresh recruits.
I confess I was exceedingly stupid, it took me such an age to grasp the truth, and once seen the wonder was how I had ever been able to miss it.
In a very few minutes the whole city was apparently engaged in the wildest confusion imaginable—why, the night of the flower festa could not begin to compare with this.
Squads and companies of men ran through the streets, bawling at the top of their voices.
At first this did not strike me as in any way singular, until the discharge of guns became more frequent, and the heavy detonation of the brass cannon kept at headquarters brightened my intellect.
Then, thrilled by a sudden suspicion, I bent my ear to catch the word these brawlers were constantly shouting—it was hard to accomplish this, such was the awful jumble of sounds, but at length I succeeded.