carried up the narrow paths between two mules with ease. His wild cry of exultation at daybreak when he saw the gun escort emerge from the valley rings in my ears now. </p> <p> &ldquo;But, senores, I have no words to depict his amazement, his fury, his despair and distraction, when he heard that the animal loaded with the gun-carriage had, during the last night march, somehow or other tumbled down a precipice. He broke into menaces of death and torture against the escort. I kept out of his way all that day, lying behind some bushes, and wondering what he would do now. Retreat was left for him, but he could not retreat. </p> <p> &ldquo;I saw below me his artillerist, Jorge, an old Spanish soldier, building up a sort of structure with heaped-up saddles. The gun, ready loaded, was lifted on to that, but in the act of firing the whole thing collapsed and the shot flew high above the stockade. </p> <p> &ldquo;Nothing more was attempted. One of the ammunition mules had been lost, too, and they had no more than six shots to fire; ample enough to batter down the gate providing the gun was well laid. This was impossible without it being properly mounted. There was no time nor means to construct a carriage. Already every moment I expected to hear Robles&rsquo; bugle-calls echo amongst the crags. </p> <p> &ldquo;Peneleo, wandering about uneasily, draped in his skins, sat down for a moment near me growling his usual tale. </p> <p> &ldquo;&lsquo;Make an entrada&mdash;a hole. If make a hole, bueno. If not make a hole, then vamos&mdash;we must go away.&rsquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;After sunset I observed with surprise the Indians making preparations as if for another assault. Their lines stood ranged in the shadows of the mountains. On the plain in front of the fort gate I saw a group of men swaying about in the same place. </p> <p> &ldquo;I walked down the ridge disregarded. The moonlight in the clear air of the uplands was bright as day, but the intense shadows confused my sight, and I could not make out what they were doing. I heard the voice of Jorge, the artillerist, say in a queer, doubtful tone, &lsquo;It is loaded, senor.&rsquo; </p> <p> &ldquo;Then another voice in that group pronounced firmly the words, &lsquo;Bring the riata here.&rsquo; It was the voice of Gaspar Ruiz. </p> <p> &ldquo;A silence fell, in which the popping shots of the besieged garrison rang out sharply. They, too, had observed the group. But the distance was too great and in the spatter of spent musket-balls cutting up the ground, the group opened, closed, swayed, giving me a glimpse of busy stooping figures in its midst. I drew nearer, doubting whether this was a weird vision, a