been marching slowly, as though he waited her going down. Her light is
no longer desired. Darkness better befits the deed that is to be done.

A halt is made until the pass has been reconnoitred. That done, the
White Chief guides his followers down the defile; and in another
half-hour the five hundred horsemen have silently disappeared within the
mazes of the chapparal!

Under the guidance of the half-blood Antonio, an open glade is found
near the centre of the thicket. Here the horsemen dismount and tie
their horses to the trees. The attack is to be made on foot.

It is now the hour after midnight. The moon has been down for some
time; and the cirrus clouds, that for a while had reflected her light,
have been gradually growing darker. Objects can no longer be
distinguished at the distance of twenty feet. The huge pile of the
Presidio, looming against the leaden sky, looks black and gloomy. The
sentinel cannot be seen upon the turrets, but at intervals his shrill
voice uttering the "_Centinela alerte_!" tells that he is at his post.
His call is answered by the sentinel at the gate below, and then all is
silent. The garrison sleeps secure--even the night-guard in the zaguan
with their bodies extended along the stone banqueta, are sleeping
soundly.

The Presidio dreads no sudden attack--there has been no rumour of Indian
incursion--the neighbouring tribes are all _en paz_; and the Tagno
conspirators have been destroyed. Greater vigilance would be
superfluous. A sentry upon the azotea, and another by the gate, are
deemed sufficient for the ordinary guardianship of the garrison. Ha!
the inmates of the Presidio little dream of the enemy that is nigh:

"_Centinela alerte_!" once more screams the watcher upon the wall.
"_Centinela alerte_!" answers the other by the gate.

But neither is sufficiently on the alert to perceive the dark forms
that, prostrate upon the ground, like huge lizards, are crawling forward
to the very walls. Slowly and silently these forms are moving, amidst
weeds and grass, gradually drawing nearer to the gateway of the
Presidio.

A lantern burns by the sentinel. Its light, radiating to some distance,
does not avail him--he sees them not!

A rustling noise at length reaches his ear. The "_quien viva_?" is upon
his lips; but he lives not to utter the words. Half-a-dozen bowstrings
twang simultaneously, and as many arrows bury themselves in his flesh.
His heart is pierced, and he