As Walker and his staff rode by the dark and silent house, a blaze of musketry lit up its front, not thirty yards away. Fortunately the marksmen's aim was bad, and not over half a dozen saddles were emptied; but the column was thrown into temporary confusion, and some of the men fell back, while others stood panic-stricken, until another volley sent them galloping in dismay. Walker, with the invincible calmness which never deserted him, reined in his horse, drew his revolver and fired its six shots into the house; then putting spurs to his steed, he rode by, erect as if on parade, while the musket balls fell like hail around him. A long-haired Californian, Major Dolan, who was riding behind him, deliberately imitated his commander, emptying his pistol to the last shot, and hurling the useless weapon at the house, with an imprecation, as he dropped from his saddle, riddled with bullets. His clothing caught in the trappings of his horse, and he was thus dragged out of the _melée_, to survive and fight another day. The rest of the force ran the gauntlet as best they could. Many were killed in a vain attempt to carry the house by storm. The rear guard with the artillery made a detour, and losing their way, did not arrive at Rivas until the next morning. To the poor marksmanship alone of the enemy can be charged the small loss of the filibusters before San Jorge and in the ambuscade at Cuatros Esquinas, the total number in killed and wounded being only some sixty or seventy. A week afterwards, the whole Allied force, led in by a deserter, made a concerted attack on Rivas, at daybreak, from four different directions. They were beaten off with dreadful slaughter, leaving six hundred dead on the field. The attack was most serious on the north side of the city, where a small battery was placed in a position to rake the American lines. It was handled well and bravely by an Italian gunner who, though exposed to a galling fire from the American sharpshooters, continued to load and fire with the utmost deliberation, advancing his piece a little nigher after each discharge. Henningsen, an adept in the same branch of warfare, stood upon the parapet of the low wall, rolling and smoking cigarettes, as he watched with admiration the actions of his cool adversary, and directing the management of a small gun which the American artillerymen were serving with less than their usual skill. At last, losing patience with his men, he leaped into the embrasure, and sighting the gun himself, threw a six-pound ball straight into the enemy's piece, which it dismounted, killing four of the gunners and wounding the Italian captain. The latter being made prisoner, the hostile batteries ceased to annoy the besieged for some time, until the gallant gunner, escaping from his captors, was enabled to resume his duties.