t was when Demetrio Macias plunged in. Did he wait for orders? Not
he! He just shouted:

"'Come on, boys! Let's go for them!'

"'Damn fool!' I thought. 'What the hell does he think he's doing!'

"The officers, surprised, said nothing. Demetrio's horse seemed to wear
eagle's claws instead of hoofs, it soared so swiftly over the rocks.
'Come on! Come on!' his men shouted, following him like wild deer,
horses and men welded into a mad stampede. Only one young fellow
stepped wild and fell headlong into the pit. In a few seconds the
others appeared at the top of the hill, storming the trenches and
killing the Federals by the thousand. With his rope, Demetrio lassoed
the machine guns and carried them off, like a bull herd throwing a
steer. Yet his success could not last much longer, for the Federals
were far stronger in numbers and could easily have destroyed Demetrio
and his men. But we took advantage of their confusion, we rushed upon
them and they soon cleared out of their position. That chief of yours
is a wonderful soldier!"

Standing on the crest of the hill, they could easily sight one side of
the Bufa peak. Its highest crag spread out like the feathered head of a
proud Aztec king. The three-hundred-foot slope was literally covered
with dead, their hair matted, their clothes clotted with grime and
blood. A host of ragged women, vultures of prey, ranged over the tepid
bodies of the dead, stripping one man bare, despoiling another, robbing
from a third his dearest possessions.

Amid clouds of white rifle smoke and the dense black vapors of flaming
buildings, houses with wide doors and windows bolted shone in the
sunlight. The streets seemed to be piled upon one another, or wound
picturesquely about fantastic corners, or set to scale the hills
nearby. Above the graceful cluster of houses, rose the lithe columns of
a warehouse and the towers and cupola of the church.

"How beautiful the revolution! Even in its most barbarous aspect it is
beautiful," Solis said with deep feeling. Then a vague melancholy
seized him, and speaking low:

"A pity what remains to do won't be as beautiful! We must wait a while,
until there are no men left to fight on either side, until no sound of
shot rings through the air save from the mob as carrion-like it falls
upon the booty; we must wait until the psychology of our race,
condensed into two words, shines clear and luminous as a drop of water:
Robbery! Murder! What a colossal failure