“sauve qui peut.”
at sight of his soldiers cut down like ripe corn before the reaper, uraga stands in stupefied amaze; his adjutant the same. both are alike under the spell of a superstitious terror. for the blow, so sudden and sweeping, seems given by god’s own hand. they might fancy it a coup d’éclair. but the jets of fire shooting forth from the forest edge, through a cloud of sulphurous smoke, are not flashes of lightning; nor the rattle that accompanies them the rolling of thunder, but the reports of firearms discharged in rapid succession. while in shouts following the shots there is no accent of heaven; on the contrary, the cries are human, in the voices of men intoned to a terrible vengeance.
though every one of the firing party has fallen, sergeant as well as rank and file, the two officers are still untouched. so far they have been saved by the interposition of the formed line. but straggling shots succeed, and bullets are whizzing past their ears.
these, quickening their instincts, rouse them from their stupefaction; and both, turning from the direction of the danger, looked to the other side for safety.
at first wildly and uncertain, for they are still under a weird impression, with senses half bewildered.
neither has a knowledge of the enemy that has made such havoc among their men; only an instinct or intuition that the blow has been struck by those terrible tejanos, for the shots heard were the cracks of rifles, and the shouts, still continued, are not indian yells nor mexican vivas, but the rough hurrahs of the anglo-saxon.
while standing in hesitancy, they hear a voice raised above the rest—one which both recognise. well do they remember it, pealing among the waggons on that day of real ruthless carnage.
glancing back over their shoulders, they see him who sends it forth—the giant guide of the caravan. he has just broken from the timber’s edge, and in vigorous bounds is advancing towards them. another is by his side, also recognised. with trembling frame, and heart chilled by fear, uraga identifies his adversary in the duel at chihuahua.
neither he nor his subordinate remains a moment longer on the ground. no thought now of carrying off their female captives, no time to think of them. enough, and they will be fortunate, if they can themselves escape.
better for both to perish there by the sides of their slain comrades. but they know not this, and only yield to the common instinct of cowardice, forcing them to flee.
fortune seems to favour them. for animals fully caparisoned stand behind the conical tent. they are these that were in readiness for a flight of far different kind, since unthought of—altogether forgotten.
good luck their being saddled and bridled now. so think uraga and roblez as they rush towards them. so thinks galvez, who is also making to mount one. the sentry has forsaken his post, leaving the marquee unguarded. when a lover no longer cares for his sweetheart, why should he for a captive.
and in the sauve-qui-peut scramble there is rarely a regard for rank, the colonel counting for no more than the corporal. obedient to this levelling instinct, galvez, who has arrived first on the ground, selects the best steed of the three—this being the horse of hamersley.
grasping the bridle, and jerking it from the branch, he springs upon the animal’s back and starts to ride off. almost as soon the two officers get astride, roblez on his own charger, the mustang mare being left to uraga. from her mistress he must part thus unceremoniously, covered with ignominious shame!
the thought is torture, and for a time stays him.
a dire, damnable purpose flashes across his brain, and for an instant holds possession of his heart. it is to dismount, make for the marquee, enter it, and kill adela miranda—thrust her through with his sword.
fortunately for her, the coward’s heart fails him.
he will not have time to do the murder and remount his horse. the rangers are already in the open ground and rushing towards him, wilder and hamersley at their head. in a minute more they will be around him.
he hesitates no longer, but, smothering his chagrin and swallowing his unappeased vengeance, puts whip and spur to the mustang mare, going off as fast as she can carry him.
