As I tottered upon my back, I felt my head and shoulders in contact with
the legs of a man. They broke the fall, that might otherwise have
stunned me: for the floor was of stone flags.
I lost no time in disentangling myself; but, before I could regain my
feet, the man bounded over my body, and stood upon the threshold.
As he passed between me and the light outside, I could see something
shining by his side. It was a sword blade. I could see that the hilt
was in his hand.
My first impression was that he had sprung into the doorway to intercept
my retreat. Of course I classed him among my enemies. How could I
expect to find friend, or protector, in such a place?
It could make but little difference. I believed that retreat by the
front door was out of the question. Double barring it would make things
no worse.
Just then I bethought me of a chance of escape, not before possible.
Was there a back door? Or a stair up to the _azotea_?
My reflections were quick as thought itself; but while making them they
lost part of their importance. The man was standing with his back
towards me and his face to the crowd upon the street. Their cries had
followed me in; and no doubt so would some of themselves, had they been
left to their predilections.
But they were not, as I now perceived. He who had opened his door to
admit, perhaps, the most unwelcome guest who had ever entered it, seemed
not the less determined upon asserting the sacred rights of hospitality.
As he placed himself between the posts, I saw the glint of steel
shooting out in front--while he commanded the people to keep back.
The command delivered in a loud authoritative voice, backed by a long
toledo, whose blade glittered deathlike under the pale glimmer of the
lamp, had the effect of awing the outsiders into a momentary silence.
There was an interval in which I heard neither shout nor reply.
He himself broke the stillness, that succeeded his first salutation.
"Leperos!" he cried, in the tone of one who feels himself speaking to
inferiors; "What is this disturbance? What are you after?"
"An enemy! A Yankee!"
"_Carrambo_! I suppose they are synonymous terms. To all appearance
you are right," continued he, catching sight of my uniform, as he turned
half round in the doorway. "But what's the use?" he continued. "What
advantage can our country derive from killing a poor devil like this?"
I felt half indignant at the speech. I recognised in the speaker the
handsome youth who had been before me with Mercedes Villa-Senor!
A bitter chance that should have made _him_ my protector!
"Let them come on!" I cried, driven to desperation at the thought; "I
need no protection from you, sir--thanks all the same! I hold the lives
of at least twelve of these gentlemen in my hands. After that, they
shall be welcome to mine. Stand aside, and see how I shall scatter the
cowardly rabble. Aside, sir!"
If I was not mad, my protector must have thought me so.
"_Carrambo_, senor!" he responded, without showing himself in the least
chafed by my ungrateful answer. "You are perhaps not aware of the
danger you are in. If I but say the word, you are a dead man."
"You'll say it, _capitano_!" shouted one on the outside. "Why not? The
Yankee has insulted you. Let's punish him, if it be only for that!"
"_Muera! Muera el Americano_!"
My assailants, freshly excited by these cries, came surging towards the
door.
"_Al atras, leperos_!" shouted my protector. "The first that sets foot
over my threshold--humble as it is--I shall spit upon my sword, like a
piece of _tasajo_. You are very brave here in the Callecito de los
Pajaros! I doubt whether there's one among you who has met the enemy--
either at Vera Cruz, or Cerro Gordo!"
"You're mistaken there, capitan Moreno!" answered a tall dark man who
stood out in front of his fellows, and whom I recognised as the chief of
the trio who had first attacked me, "Here's one who has been in both the
battles you are pleased to speak of; and who has come out of them, not
like your noble self--a prisoner upon parole!"
"Captain Carrasco, if I mistake not?" sneeringly retorted my protector.
"I can believe that of you. Not likely to be a prisoner of any kind.
No doubt you took care to get well out of the way before the time when
prisoners were being taken?"
"_Carajo_!" screamed the swarthy disputant, his face turning livid with
rage. "You say that? You have heard it, _camarados_? Capitan Moreno
sets himself up, not only as our judge, but the protector of our
accursed invaders! And we must submit to his sublime dictation--we the
citizens of Puebla!"
"No--no, we won't stand it. _Muera el Americano_! The Yankee must be
delivered up!"
"You must take him, then," coolly responded Moreno, "at the point of my
sword."
"And at the muzzle of my pistol," I added, springing to the side of my
generous host--determined to share with him the defence of his doorway.
This unexpected resistance caused a change in the attitude of Carrasco
and his cowardly associates. Though they hailed it with a vengeful
shout, it was plain that their impetuosity had received a check; and,
instead of advancing to the attack, one and all stood cowed-like and
silent.
They seemed to know the temper of my protector as well as his sword; and
this no doubt for the time restrained them.
But the true secret of their backwardness was to be sought for in the
six-shooters, one of which I now held in each hand. The Mexicans had
just become acquainted with the character of this splendid weapon--first
used in battle in that same campaign--and its destructive powers, by
report exaggerated tenfold, inspired them, as it had done the Prairie
Indians, with a fear almost supernatural.
Perhaps to this sentiment was I indebted for my salvation. Brave as my
protector was, and skilled as he might be with his toledo--quick and
sure as I could have delivered my twelve shots--what would all have
availed against a mob of infuriated men, already a hundred strong, and
every moment augmenting? One, perhaps both, of us must have fallen
before their fury.
It may seem strange to talk of sentiment, in such a crisis as that in
which I was placed. You will be incredulous of its existence. And yet,
by my honour, it _did_ exist. I felt it, as certainly as I ever did in
my life.
I need scarcely say what the sentiment was. It could only be that of
profound gratitude--first to Francisco Moreno; and then to God for
making such a noble man!
The thought that followed was but a consequence of this reflection. It
was to save him who was risking his life to save me.
I was about to appeal to him to stand aside, and leave me to my fate.
What good would it do for both to die? for I verily believed that death
was at hand.
My purpose was not carried out; though its frustration came not from a
craven fear. Very different was the cause that stayed my tongue.
As we stood silent--both defenders and those threatening to attack--a
sound was borne upon the breeze, which caused the silence to be
prolonged.
There could be no doubt as to the signification of this sound. Any one
who has ever witnessed the spectacle of a troop of horse passing along a
paved street, will recognise the noises that accompany it:--the
continuous tramping of hoofs, the tinkling of curbs, and the occasional
clank of a scabbard, as it strikes against spur or stirrup.
Such noises I recognised, as did every individual in the "Street of the
Sparrows."
"_La guardia_! _La patrulla Americana_!" (The guard! The American
patrol!) was the muttered exclamations that came from the crowd.
My heart bounded with joy, and I was about to spring forth--thinking my
assailants would now make way for me.
But no. They stood firm and close as a wall, maintaining their
semicircle around the doorway.
Though evidently resolved on keeping their ground they made no noise--
with their knives and _machetes_ only demonstrating in silence!
I saw their design. The patrol was passing along one of the principal
streets. They knew that the least disturbance would attract it into the
Callecito.
If silent, but for ten seconds, they would be safe to renew the attack;
and I should then be lost--surely sacrificed!
What was to be done? Fire into their midst, commence the _fracas_, and,
by so doing, summon the patrol to my rescue? Perhaps it would arrive in
time to be too late--to take up my mangled corpse, and carry it to the
cuartel?