n, soldiers in uniform.

Before Miranda can disengage his sword from its scabbard, a perfect
_chevaux-de-frise_ of lance-points are within six inches of his breast,
while the doctor is similarly menaced.

Both perceive that resistance will be idle. It can only end in their
instant impalement.

"Surrender, rebels!" cries a voice rising above the din.

"Drop your weapons, and at once, if you wish your lives spared!
Soldiers, disarm them!"

Miranda recognises the voice. Perhaps, had he done so sooner, he would
have held on to his sword, and taken the chances of a more protracted
and desperate resistance.

It is too late. As the weapon is wrested from his grasp, he sees
standing before him the man of all others he has most reason to fear--
Gil Uraga!

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT.

All night long Hamersley and the hunter remain upon the summit of the
mound. It is a night of dread anxiety, seeming to them an age.

They think not of taking sleep--they could not. There is that in their
minds that would keep them wakeful if they had not slept for a week.
Time passing does not lessen their suspense. On the contrary, it grows
keener, becoming an agony almost unendurable.

To escape from it, Hamersley half forms the resolution to descend the
hill and endeavour to steal past the sentinels. If discovered, to
attack them boldly, and attempt cutting a way through; then on into the
valley, and take such chances as may turn up for the rescue of the
refugees.

Putting it to his companion, the latter at once offers opposing counsel.
It would be more than rashness--sheer madness. At least a dozen
soldiers have been left on picket at the summit of the pass. Standing
or sitting, they are scattered all over the ground. It would be
impossible for anyone going down the gorge to get past them unperceived;
and for two men to attack twelve, however courageous the former and
cowardly the latter, the odds would be too great.

"I wouldn't mind it for all that," says Walt, concluding his response to
the rash proposal, "ef thar war nothin' more to be did beyont. But thar
is. Even war we to cut clar through, kill every skunk o' 'em, our work
'ud be only begun. Thar's two score to meet us below. What ked we do
wi' 'em? No, Frank; we mout tackle these twelve wi' some sort o'
chance, but two agin forty! It's too ugly a odds. No doubt we ked drop
a good grist o' 'em afore goin' under, but in the eend they'd g