And then there occurred a startling phenomenon. As the moon rose above the Silla of Caracas, the entire savanna below us seemed to take fire, streams as of lava began to run up (not down) the sides of the hills, throwing a lurid glare over the sleeping city, and bringing into strong relief the rugged mountains which walled in the plain.
“Good heavens, what is that!” I exclaimed.
“It is the time of drought, and the peons are firing the grass to improve the land,” said Carmen. “I wish they had not done it just now, though. However, it is, perhaps, quite as well. If the light makes us more visible to others, it also makes others more visible to us. Hark! What is that? Did you not hear something?”
“I did. The neighing of a horse. Halt! Let us listen.”
“The neighing of a horse and something more.”
“Men’s voices and the rattle of accoutrements. The patrol, after all. What shall we do? To turn back would be fatal. The ravine is too deep to descend. Climbing those rocks is out of the question. There is but one alternative—we must charge right through them.”
“How many men does a patrol generally consist of?”
“Sometimes two, sometimes four.”
“May it not be a squadron on the march?”
“It may. No matter. We must charge them, all the same. Better die sword in hand than be garroted on the plaza. We have one great advantage. We shall take these fellows by surprise. Let us wait here in the shade, and the moment they round that corner, go at them, full gallop.”