he quick trampling footfalls of all the rest; and as none dared
to look back, so all continued to run; and so they ran, and ran, and ran,
and they have probably been keeping it up ever since, unless, indeed, they
thought better of it, and concluded to stop and rest.

The reason why there was no pursuit is a very simple one. The fact is, the
attacking force amounted to no more than six, these six being no others
than our friends the imprisoned Carlists, headed by the intrepid, the
ardent, the devoted, the plucky little Spanish maid Dolores. She had
contrived to pick up some stray arms and ammunition with which she had
supplied her Carlist friends, and, waiting for some opportune moment, had
made a sudden rush, like Gideon upon the Midianites, with the startling
results above described.

But let us on with our story.

The smoke rolled away, and there was disclosed a new scene.

Two or three wounded Republicans lay writhing on the floor. Lopez lay
near, bound tight, and surrounded by the six Carlists, who, I am sorry to
say, insulted their captive by fierce threats and unnecessary taunts. At
all this Lopez seemed unmoved, though the expression of his face was by no
means a happy one.

It is a very annoying thing, my reader, when you are bringing in your long
suit, and the game appears to be all your own, to have it all changed by
the interposition of a miserable trump, on the existence of which you had
not reckoned; and then to leave the _role_ of Conquering Hero, and change
the part of victor for that of vanquished, requires so many high moral
qualities that few can be reasonably expected to exhibit them in such a
wicked world as this.

And here there is an excellent opportunity to pause and moralize; but, on
the whole, perhaps it is better to proceed.

Very well, then.

There was Dolores, and she was clinging to Ashby in a perfect abandon of
joy. She had found him! that was bliss indeed. She had saved him! that was
joy almost too great for endurance. The impetuous and ardent nature of
Dolores, which made her so brave, made her also the slave of her changing
moods; and so it was that the heroine who had but lately led that wild
charge on to victory now sobbed and wept convulsively in Ashby's arms. As
for Ashby, he no longer seemed made of stone. He forgot all else except
the one fact that Dolores had come back to him. Lopez might have
perceived, if he had leisure for such observations, that Ashby's English
phlegm