"No--no, we won't stand it. _Muera el Americano_! The Yankee must be delivered up!"

"You must take him, then," coolly responded Moreno, "at the point of my sword."

"And at the muzzle of my pistol," I added, springing to the side of my generous host--determined to share with him the defence of his doorway.

This unexpected resistance caused a change in the att.i.tude of Carrasco and his cowardly a.s.sociates. Though they hailed it with a vengeful shout, it was plain that their impetuosity had received a check; and, instead of advancing to the attack, one and all stood cowed-like and silent.

They seemed to know the temper of my protector as well as his sword; and this no doubt for the time restrained them.

But the true secret of their backwardness was to be sought for in the six-shooters, one of which I now held in each hand. The Mexicans had just become acquainted with the character of this splendid weapon--first used in battle in that same campaign--and its destructive powers, by report exaggerated tenfold, inspired them, as it had done the Prairie Indians, with a fear almost supernatural.

Perhaps to this sentiment was I indebted for my salvation. Brave as my protector was, and skilled as he might be with his toledo--quick and sure as I could have delivered my twelve shots--what would all have availed against a mob of infuriated men, already a hundred strong, and every moment augmenting? One, perhaps both, of us must have fallen before their fury.

It may seem strange to talk of sentiment, in such a crisis as that in which I was placed. You will be incredulous of its existence. And yet, by my honour, it _did_ exist. I felt it, as certainly as I ever did in my life.

I need scarcely say what the sentiment was. It could only be that of profound grat.i.tude--first to Francisco Moreno; and then to G.o.d for making such a n.o.ble man!

The thought that followed was but a consequence of this reflection. It was to save him who was risking his life to save me.

I was about to appeal to him to stand aside, and leave me to my fate.

What good would it do for both to die? for I verily believed that death was at hand.

My purpose was not carried out; though its frustration came not from a craven fear. Very different was the cause that stayed my tongue.

As we stood silent--both defenders and those threatening to attack--a sound was borne upon the breeze, which caused the silence to be prolonged.

There could be no doubt as to the signification of this sound. Any one who has ever witnessed the spectacle of a troop of horse pa.s.sing along a paved street, will recognise the noises that accompany it:--the continuous tramping of hoofs, the tinkling of curbs, and the occasional clank of a scabbard, as it strikes against spur or stirrup.

Such noises I recognised, as did every individual in the "Street of the Sparrows."

"_La guardia_! _La patrulla Americana_!" (The guard! The American patrol!) was the muttered exclamations that came from the crowd.

My heart bounded with joy, and I was about to spring forth--thinking my a.s.sailants would now make way for me.

But no. They stood firm and close as a wall, maintaining their semicircle around the doorway.

Though evidently resolved on keeping their ground they made no noise-- with their knives and _machetes_ only demonstrating in silence!

I saw their design. The patrol was pa.s.sing along one of the princ.i.p.al streets. They knew that the least disturbance would attract it into the Callecito.

If silent, but for ten seconds, they would be safe to renew the attack; and I should then be lost--surely sacrificed!

What was to be done? Fire into their midst, commence the _fracas_, and, by so doing, summon the patrol to my rescue? Perhaps it would arrive in time to be too late--to take up my mangled corpse, and carry it to the cuartel?

I hesitated to tempt the attack.

Was there no other way, by which I could give warning to my countrymen?

O G.o.d! the hoof-trampling seemed gradually growing less distinct! No sound of bit, or spur, stirrup, or steel scabbard. They had pa.s.sed the end of the Callecito. Ten seconds more, and they would be beyond hearing!

Ha! a happy thought! That night--I now remembered it--my own corps--the Rifle Rangers--const.i.tuted the street patrol. My first Serjeant would be at its head. Between him and me had long been established a code of signals--independent of those set for the bugler. By the favour of fortune, I had upon my person the means of making them--a common dog-call, that more than once, during the campaign, had stood me in good stead.

In another instant its shrill echoes resounded through the street, and were heard half-way across the City of the Angels.

If the devil himself had directed the signal, it could not have more effectually paralysed our opponents. They stood speechless--astounded!

Only for a short while did they thus remain. Then, as if some wild panic had suddenly seized upon them, both footpads and citizens ran scattering away!

In the place they had occupied I could see two score of horses, with the same number of men upon their backs--whose dark green uniforms were joyfully recognised.

With a shout I rushed forth to receive them!

After an interlude of confused congratulations I turned to give thanks-- far more than thanks--to Francisco Moreno.

My grat.i.tude was doomed to disappointment. He who so well deserved it was no longer to be seen.

The door, through which I had so fortunately fallen, was closed upon my generous protector!

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

THE RED HATS.

For more than a month after the incidents related, were we of the invading army compelled to endure a semi-seclusion, within _cuartels_ neither very clean nor comfortable.

We should have far preferred the _billet_; and there were scores of grand "casas" whose owners richly deserved it.

But the thing was out of the question. To have scattered our small force would have been to court the rising we had reason to apprehend.

Our division-general had the good sense to perceive this; and, against the grumbling of both officers and men, insisted upon his injunction--to stay within doors--being rigorously observed.

To me the situation was irksome in the extreme. It gave too much leisure to brood over my bitterness. An active life might have offered some chance of distraction; but inside a barrack--where one grows ennuyed with always seeing the same faces, and tired of the everlasting small talk--even the ordinary routine is sufficiently afflicting. What was it in the heart of a hostile city? What to me, suffering from the humiliation I had experienced?

Only for the sake of excitement did I desire to go out on the streets.

The Calle del Obispo had lost its attractions for me; or, rather should I say, they were lost to me. As for visiting the Callecito de los Pajaros, I am sorry to record: that my wounded _amour propre_ was more powerful than my sense of grat.i.tude. I felt more inclined to shun, than seek it.

A month, and there came a change. The streets of La Puebla were once more free to us--by night as by day.

It was caused by the arrival of three or four fresh brigades of the American army: now concentrating to advance upon the capital.

The tables were turned, and the hostile Poblanos were reduced--if not to a state of friendship, at least to one of fear.

They had cause. Along with our troops came a regiment of "Texas Rangers"--the dread of all modern Mexicans--with scores of nondescript camp-followers, by our enemies equally to be dreaded.

Still more to be feared, and shunned, by the citizens of Puebla, was a band of _regular robbers_, whom General Scott--for some sapient purpose of his own--had incorporated with the American army, under the t.i.tle of the "Spy Company"--the name taken from the service they were intended to perform.

They were the band of captain--usually styled "colonel"--Dominguez; an ex-officer of Santa Anna's army, who for years had sustained himself in the mountains around Perote, and the _mal pais_ of El Pinol--a terror to all travellers not rich enough to command a strong escort of Government "dragones."