The escape of Raoul and Hercules produced an affect almost magical upon
the enemy. Instead of the listless defensive attitude lately assumed,
the guerilleros were now in motion like a nest of roused hornets,
scouring over the plain, and yelling like a war-party of Indians.
They did not surround the corral, as I had anticipated they would. They
had no fear that we should attempt to escape; but they knew that,
instead of the three days in which they expected to kill us with thirst
at their leisure, they had not three hours left to accomplish that
object. Raoul would reach the camp in little more than an hour's time,
and either infantry or mounted men would be on them in two hours after.
Scouts were seen galloping off in the direction taken by Raoul, and
others dashed into the woods on the opposite side of the prairie. All
was hurry and scurry.
Along with Clayley I had climbed upon the roof of the rancho, to watch
the motions of the enemy, and to find out, if possible, his intentions.
We stood for some time without speaking, both of us gazing at the
manoeuvres of the guerilleros. They were galloping to and fro over the
prairie, excited by the escape of Raoul.
"Splendidly done!" exclaimed my companion, struck with their graceful
horsemanship. "One of those fellows, Captain, as he sits, at this
minute, would--"
"Ha! what--?" shouted he, suddenly turning and pointing towards the
woods.
I looked in the direction indicated. A cloud of dust was visible at the
_debouchement_ of the Medellin road. It appeared to hang over a small
body of troops upon the march. The sun was just setting, and, as the
cloud lay towards the west, I could distinguish the sparkling of bright
objects through its dun volume. The guerilleros had reined up their
horses, and were eagerly gazing towards the same point.
Presently the dust was wafted aside, a dozen dark forms became visible,
and in the midst a bright object flashed under the sun like a sheet of
gold. At the same instant an insulting shout broke from the
guerilleros, and a voice was heard exclaiming:
"_Cenobio! Cenobio! Los canones_!" (Cenobio! Cenobio! the cannon!)
Clayley turned towards me with an inquiring look.
"It is true, Clayley; by heavens, we'll have it now!"
"What did they say?"
"Look for yourself--well?"
"A brass piece, as I live!--a six-pound carronade!"
"We are fighting the guerilla [Note 1] of Cenobio, a small army of
itself. Neither stockade nor motte will avail us now."
"What is to be done?" asked my companion.
"Nothing but die with arms in our hands. We will not die without a
struggle, and the sooner we prepare for it the better."