“Alas, alas, what a moment was that!” said the poor woman, as she told her painful story. The savages brandished their tomahawks around her children, and she thought that the last farewell had been taken. They behaved, however, with unusual clemency; the captives were released, and allowed to return to their home—to find it a wreck, and the ground strewn with the dead bodies of their kinsmen and friends. “Ay de mi!” (“Woe is me!”) While at La Punta, our traveller was witness of the Mexican sport of the “Coléa de toros” (or “bull-tailing”), for the enjoyment of which two or three hundred rancheros had assembled from the neighbouring plantations. A hundred bulls were shut up in a large corral, or enclosure, at one end of which had been erected a building for the convenience of the lady spectators. The horsemen, brave in their picturesque Mexican costume, were grouped around the corral, examining the animals as they were driven to and fro in order to increase their excitement, while the ranchero himself, and his sons, brandishing long lances, were busily engaged in forcing the wilder and more active bulls into a second enclosure. When this had been effected, the entrance was thrown open, and out dashed, with glaring eyes, tossing head, and lashing tail, a fine bull, to gallop at his topmost speed over the grassy plain before him, followed by the whole crowd of shouting, yelling horsemen, each of whom endeavoured to outstrip the other, and overtake the flying animal. At first they all kept close together, riding very equally, and preserving excellent order, but very soon superior skill or strength or daring began to tell, and in front of the main body shot forth a few of the cavaliers. Heading them all, in swift pursuit of the rolling cloud of dust which indicated the bull’s track, rode the son of the ranchero, a boy about twelve years old; and as he swayed this way and that when the bull doubled, the women made the air ring with their shrill vivas. “Viva, Pepito! viva!” cried his mother; and, dashing his spurs into his horse’s streaming flanks, the brave lad ran the race. But before long the others came up with stealthy strides; soon they were abreast of him. The pace quickened; the horses themselves seemed to share the excitement; the men shouted, the women screamed; each urged on her favourite—“Alza!—Bernardo!—Por mi amor, Juan Maria!—Viva, Pepitito!” A stalwart Mexican, mounted on a fine roan, eventually took the lead, and every moment increased the distance between himself and his competitors. But Pepito’s quick eyes detected a sudden movement of the bull, and saw that, concealed by the dust, he had wheeled off at a sharp angle from his former course. In an instant Pepe did the same, and dashed in front of him, amid a fresh outburst of cheers and vivas. Getting on the bull’s left quarter, he stooped down to seize his tail, and secure it under his right leg, so as to bring him to the ground.