Don Balthasar extended his hand over the balustrade, and there was a general movement of recoil below. I wondered why the slaves on the stairs did not charge and clear the _patio_; but I suppose with such a mob outside there was a natural hesitation in bringing the position to an issue. The _Lugareños_ were muttering, “Look at the _Inglez!_” then cried out together, “Excellency, give up this _Inglez!_” Don Balthasar seemed ten years younger suddenly. I had never seen him so imposingly erect. “Insensate!” he began, without any anger. “He is going to fire!” yelled Castro’s voice somewhere in the gallery. I saw a red dart in the shadow of the gate. The broken-nosed pirate had fired at me. The report, deadened in the vault, hardly reached my ears. Don Balthazar’s arm seemed to swing me back. Then I felt him lean heavily on my shoulder. I did not know what had happened till I heard him say: “Pray for me, gentlemen.” Father Antonio received him in his arms. For a second after the shot, the most dead silence prevailed in the court. It was broken by an affrighted howl below: and Seraphina’s voice cried piercingly: “Father!” The priest, dropping on one knee, sustained the silvery head, with its thin features already calm in death. Don Balthasar had saved my life; and his daughter flung herself upon the body. O’Brien pressed his hands to his temples, and remained motionless. I saw the bishop, in his stiff cope, creep up to the group with the motion of a tortoise. And, for a moment, his quavering voice pronouncing the absolution was the only sound in the house. Then a most fiendish noise broke out below. The negroes had charged, and the _Lugareños_, struck with terror at the unforeseen catastrophe, were rushing helter-skelter through the gate. The screaming of the maids was frightful. They ran up and down the galleries with their hair streaming. O’Brien passed me by swiftly, muttering like a madman. I, also, got down into the courtyard in time to strike some heavy blows under the gateway; but I don’t know who it was that thrust into my hands the musket which I used as a club. The sudden burst of shrieks, the cries of terror under the vault of the gate, yells of rage and consternation, silenced the mob outside. The _Lugareños_, appalled at what had happened, shouted most pitifully. They squeaked like the vermin they were. I brought down the clubbed musket; two went down. Of two I am sure. The rush of flying feet swept through between the walls, bearing me along. For a time a black stream of men eddied in the moonlight round the bishop’s coach, like a torrent breaking round a boulder. The great heavy machine rocked, mules plunged, torches swayed.