I peered through the dim light, and there, drawn up between us and San Sebastian, on some level ground, I saw several regiments of regulars. A few companies, already extended, were lying down and firing up at us, some were deploying as rapidly as they could, and others were crowding into San Sebastian and lining the walls. Four field-guns came bumping along out of the mist and began unlimbering and a little group of horsemen galloped up behind them. ’There’s old Zorilla!’ we both sang out. You couldn’t possibly mistake him and his black horse. ’He’s too late,’ Gerald whispered excitedly. ’We’ll rush ’em.’ He got up and back we climbed to where we’d left our men. Bullets were spluttering and splashing all round us, but no one was hit. Gerald collected some of the officers and jabbered away to them in Spanish. I saw their tired eyes begin flaming. ’Look here, Billums!’ he said, turning to me. ’Would you mind hurrying down in front of those chaps on the left? I’m going to take the right of the mob—I’m going straight for the guns—but you cut along to the left and try and get into San Sebastian. Shout, wave your arms, but keep going, and they’ll follow all right. Here, take my polo helmet, that’ll make you all the more like me. It’s all right; Zorilla won’t get his chaps to stand when they see we mean things.’ Off he ran to his part of the line. [Illustration: SCRAMBLING DOWN THE MOUNTAIN SIDE] My aunt! that was fun, if you like. I went across to the left and began halloaing; the officers began shouting, ’_Viva los Horizontales!_’ and before I could say ’Jack Robinson’ the whole of those little brown chaps and I were scrambling down the mountain-side straight for San Sebastian, yelling blue murder. My old boots were knocking up against each other and against my back, but I jammed Gerald’s polo hat firmly on and slid and scrambled, and ran and slid again. The field-guns fired once or twice, there was an appalling triumphant shrieking noise behind me—you couldn’t call it a cheer, it was much too savage for that—and Gerald was right. Zorilla’s infantry could _not_ stand the torrent of brown forest-men dashing down the mountain-side on top of them, and, just as I was wishing that I had a stick or a stone—anything, in fact—in my hand, they fired a volley and began running and racing back to the town and behind the walls of San Sebastian. The mule-drivers unhitched the mules from the guns and galloped madly along after them—helter-skelter—dodging behind the walls, and then streaming along the road towards the city itself. We were after them like smoke, and just as some of them dashed across the drawbridge and tried to close the heavy iron doors, we rushed in. They didn’t show fight, I should think they didn’t; it was only the backs of them we saw as they tumbled over themselves to escape, throwing away their rifles and clambering through the embrasures of those saluting guns.