"I am bringing up a gun. I must take that corner house, I cannot pass it, the windows are all loop-holed."
"You know the positive orders of General Whitelock! Unless you advance at once I shall be forced to report you."
Again the troopers formed in column, again they advanced over ground strewn with the bodies of their slaughtered comrades, their leader marching, now on foot, at their head, the aide-de-camp beside him, a fine-made young man, with the blue eyes and yellow hair of the midland counties, Craddock by name, the favourite aide-de-camp of General Whitelock.
Don Isidro had watched all these manœuvres; again he reserved his fire till the column was more than half way to the fatal corner, again leaping on to the parapet he waved his sword as a signal, again a storm of shot swept away the whole ranks of living men. Colonel Kington fell; the aide-de-camp reeled in his saddle, let go his reins to press his hand to his side, his frightened horse turned and galloped off, away back through the now silent suburb to the British camp; his rider, seeing nothing, knowing nothing of where he went, kept his seat till the horse stopped, when he was gently lifted from the saddle, carried into a house and laid upon a bed. There he lingered till sundown, neither opening his eyes nor speaking, save once when General Whitelock bent over him and spoke to him.
"Ah, General!" he said, "Those streets of Buenos Aires, they are, as that Spaniard said they would be, the pathways of death."
Again the column recoiled from that fatal corner, and a gun being now brought up was wheeled into position in front of the door of Don Isidro's house, at somewhat more than 100 yards distance. The first shot crashed through a panel of the door and did little harm; the second struck it full in the centre, where it was secured by a heavy cross-bar, shattering the latter and the door itself so much that it was only held by the lower bolts. Two more shots, and the door was a complete wreck. Then the troopers, in open order, again advanced, firing steadily at the Patricios on the azotea, and at the loop-holed windows.
Fiercely occupied as each man was at his own post, Doña Dalmacia was the first to notice the shattered door. Leaving her own room she ran across the patio to the almacen, calling upon the men there to bring out boxes and barrels to block up the zaguan. Excited men rushed out into the patio as they heard her voice, not comprehending what she said amid the roar of musketry. Seeing the open doorway they fired from the patio upon the advancing troops. In vain Doña Dalmacia ran among them, entreating them to block up the entrance at once, they were mad with fury of the fight. English bullets came amongst them, several of them fell, then Doña Dalmacia, running into the sala, brought out a heavy chair and threw it on its side in the middle of the zaguan. Hardly had she done so ere a bullet struck her in the throat, she fell forward upon the chair, clinging to it with her hands, her blood pouring over the embroidered velvet in a steady stream.
Don Isidro had heard his wife's voice; calling upon some of his men to follow him, he ran down the narrow stair from the roof; as he set foot in the patio he saw his wife fall.
"Dalma!" he screamed rushing to her and raising her in his arms. It was the last word he ever uttered. She opened her eyes once, looked upon him with a loving smile, her lips moved, but no words came, he saw she was dead. With one arm clasped round her, he shook the other hand fiercely at the English; they poured in one deadly volley, and then rushed into the zaguan. Don Isidro fell, shot through the heart, in death yet clasping his wife to him; their blood, mingling in one red stream, dyed the feet of the furious soldiers as they ran in over their prostrate bodies.
The shouts of men, the screams of women, as they saw Don Isidro fall back upon the pavement with his wife's body in his arms, brought the entire garrison of the house into the patio. From the roof, from the sala, from the almacen men rushed towards the main entrance, beating back the soldiery with clubbed muskets, stabbing furiously with knives, bayonets, or whatever weapon came to hand, while from the azotea the Patricios opened fire upon the zaguan itself. The struggle was sharp but short; all the English who had entered the patio were killed, the zaguan was choked with the bodies of their dead. Reinforcements poured in from every side, a strong party from the suburbs ventured into the open street and attacked the invaders in the rear; Captain Buller who had led the attack upon the house had fallen in the zaguan; again they retreated. The Patricios rushed out in pursuit.