I had made a pleasing discovery.
Among the many shouts that went to make up the chorus all around, I distinguished plain English huzzas, and made out that Robbins was leading a party in a desperate charge upon the rear of the citadel.
Well, that was a hot time in Bolivar, an occasion never to be forgotten in any change of administration the future might bring.
Never had so desperate a battle been waged between the opposing forces, never such a charge made as our rush across the open.
Guerrilla tactics must be relegated to the past in Bolivar; henceforth one would hear of Gatling guns and Mauser rifles, and the party in power would be hard to dislodge; and perhaps with the increased slaughter the desire to revolutionize might weaken.
Thus would Robbins and his Gringo comrade have played the part of missionaries.
That door—how it hung on.
We battered for all we were worth—why, the men had by this time become so enthused that they forgot the respect they had formerly entertained for hot lead, forgot to dodge when a shot of vivid fire shot out from the wall, and in consequence several were knocked over.
Others arriving, eager to be in at the death, were ready to take their places.
And the door was already a sad wreck.