Don Isidro had heard his wife's voice; calling upon some of his men to follow him, he ran down the narrow stair from the roof; as he set foot in the patio he saw his wife fall. "Dalma!" he screamed rushing to her and raising her in his arms. It was the last word he ever uttered. She opened her eyes once, looked upon him with a loving smile, her lips moved, but no words came, he saw she was dead. With one arm clasped round her, he shook the other hand fiercely at the English; they poured in one deadly volley, and then rushed into the zaguan. Don Isidro fell, shot through the heart, in death yet clasping his wife to him; their blood, mingling in one red stream, dyed the feet of the furious soldiers as they ran in over their prostrate bodies. The shouts of men, the screams of women, as they saw Don Isidro fall back upon the pavement with his wife's body in his arms, brought the entire garrison of the house into the patio. From the roof, from the sala, from the almacen men rushed towards the main entrance, beating back the soldiery with clubbed muskets, stabbing furiously with knives, bayonets, or whatever weapon came to hand, while from the azotea the Patricios opened fire upon the zaguan itself. The struggle was sharp but short; all the English who had entered the patio were killed, the zaguan was choked with the bodies of their dead. Reinforcements poured in from every side, a strong party from the suburbs ventured into the open street and attacked the invaders in the rear; Captain Buller who had led the attack upon the house had fallen in the zaguan; again they retreated. The Patricios rushed out in pursuit. The English, re-forming their broken ranks, attempted to cover their retreat by the fire of their cannon, but from every side poured in upon them fresh hosts of foes. Men fell by dozens; for five minutes the open ground was the scene of a frightful butchery. Then a cry arose among the Patricios, "To the cannon, muchachos!"