to depose
Marquez, but each one failed. Splendid sallies resulted in prisoners
taken, which were only so many more mouths to feed. The Roman aqueduct
had long since been cut off, and now the wells were giving out. Mules
and horses drank at the river, while sharpshooters picked them off. The
feebler animals were butchered and distributed as rations. And still the
sorry Marquez gave no sign. Even hope failed the empty stomachs.

But for those who waited outside as Vengeance enthroned, expectation
began to take on a creepy quality. The besiegers were preparing against
themselves a host, not of men, but of frightful spectres, of famished
maniacs, of unearthly ghouls, who would clutch and tear with claws any
man that stood between them and a morsel of food. And the fury of
desperation sharpened with each succeeding irony of a dinner hour.

The siege had endured six weeks. Marquez had been gone a month. But the
Republicans held ready for whatever force he might bring. Their key to
the situation was the Cimatario, the highest hill on the south. Between
it and the wooded Alameda stretched the grassy plain. Republican
trenches from base to shoulder of the peak opposed Imperialist trenches
under the Alameda trees. Republican troops flanked the Cimatario on
either side, lying in wait for Marquez. On one side Driscoll's Grays
guarded the Celaya road.

So here they were sleeping encamped on the morning of April 27, when the
bugle of a patrol cracked their slumbers. They lay booted and spurred. A
moment later they were horsed as well, blinking across the plain in the
pearly mist of dawn. They had heard hoofbeats, sharp and dry on the high
tableland. Now they saw a wild, shadowy troop, which was hotly pursuing
a spectral coach of gossamer wheels, with six plunging mules frantically
lashed by outriders. At once, almost, the coach was lost among the dim
strangers, who snatched at flying ends of harness, and with their prize
raced on again.

The Grays stared. It was like some pictured hold-up, not real. But they
knew better when from among themselves a colossal yellow horse and rider
dashed toward the road. Then they awoke for certain, and tore after
their colonel to solve this ashen mystery so early in the morning. Was
it Marquez, perhaps? But the coach white with dust, and white curtains
flapping, what was that?

Striking their flank at an angle, Driscoll drove hard into the fleeing
horde. The Grays saw his hand raise as a signal