, seems given by God's own hand. They might fancy it a _coup
d'eclair_. But the jets of fire shooting forth from the forest edge,
through a cloud of sulphurous smoke, are not flashes of lightning; nor
the rattle that accompanies them the rolling of thunder, but the reports
of firearms discharged in rapid succession. While in shouts following
the shots there is no accent of Heaven; on the contrary, the cries are
human, in the voices of men intoned to a terrible vengeance.

Though every one of the firing party has fallen, sergeant as well as
rank and file, the two officers are still untouched. So far they have
been saved by the interposition of the formed line. But straggling
shots succeed, and bullets are whizzing past their ears.

These, quickening their instincts, rouse them from their stupefaction;
and both, turning from the direction of the danger, looked to the other
side for safety.

At first wildly and uncertain, for they are still under a weird
impression, with senses half bewildered.

Neither has a knowledge of the enemy that has made such havoc among
their men; only an instinct or intuition that the blow has been struck
by those terrible _Tejanos_, for the shots heard were the cracks of
rifles, and the shouts, still continued, are not Indian yells nor
Mexican vivas, but the rough hurrahs of the Anglo-Saxon.

While standing in hesitancy, they hear a voice raised above the rest--
one which both recognise. Well do they remember it, pealing among the
waggons on that day of real ruthless carnage.

Glancing back over their shoulders, they see him who sends it forth--the
giant guide of the caravan. He has just broken from the timber's edge,
and in vigorous bounds is advancing towards them. Another is by his
side, also recognised. With trembling frame, and heart chilled by fear,
Uraga identifies his adversary in the duel at Chihuahua.

Neither he nor his subordinate remains a moment longer on the ground.
No thought now of carrying off their female captives, no time to think
of them. Enough, and they will be fortunate, if they can themselves
escape.

Better for both to perish there by the sides of their slain comrades.
But they know not this, and only yield to the common instinct of
cowardice, forcing them to flee.

Fortune seems to favour them. For animals fully caparisoned stand
behind the conical tent. They are these that were in readiness for a
flight of far different kind, since unthought of--