Without further hesitation, he entered the barracks, spoke with the two sergeants of the dwindled company, bade them form it, rapidly exchanged words with his men, and, then, drawing his sword and facing the files, cried out—his voice still trembling:
“Boys! viva el Imperio!” (May the Empire live).
“Viva!” (may it live)—one soldier answered.
“Sergeant Beltran,” said Antón, “fifteen men with you to guard the barracks; twenty-five, with Sergeant Federico, may follow me.”
The order was carried out to the letter, and at the head of his twenty-five men, Antón marched to the house, where the two Méndez brothers were gaily breakfasting.
At the moment when the colonel exclaimed, “Impossible,” denying Don Vencho’s report, there was heard, on the walk in front, the sound of guns, on falling to rest.
“Sergeant Federico!” ordered Antón, “advance and order Colonel Méndez and the officers who accompany him to yield themselves prisoners.”
There was no necessity for the sergeant to enter, since Captain Méndez rushed out at once, and standing, from the opposite sidewalk, with hair bristling and eyes flashing, as if he were the personification of indignation, burst forth in these cries, which issued in a torrent from his frothing lips:
“Bravo! Lieutenant Pérez! Thus you fulfil the oath of fealty, which you swore to your flag! thus do you employ the arms which your country placed in your hands for her defence! Traitors! traitors to your native land! What do you seek here? What wish you, of us? Assassinate us! We shall not defend ourselves. Lieutenant Pérez, complete your crime, fulfil your part as assassins! Here, am I! let them kill,” and, saying this, he stepped forward and drawing back the lapel of his coat, bared his breast. “What delays them? Traitors! Assassins!”
At that moment a soldier among those who heard the violent and insulting reproach raised his gun. Antón Pérez saw it and drawing his sword, threw himself upon the soldier, crying: