It was an image too firmly fixed in my memory, and too deeply engraven upon my heart, to be ever more mistaken. I had just time to see that her dress was torn, her hair tossed, and hanging like a cloud about her shoulders--just time to note that she looked wan and woe-stricken--when the voice of Carrasco, rising above the sibillation of the torrent, summoned us to a parley. "Caballeros!" he cried out, "in the darkness I have no chance to know who you are; but, from your mode of making approach, I take it you are our enemies. Furthermore, from the fact of your being armed with rifles, you should be _Americanos_! Am I right?" I had not sufficiently recovered coolness to make reply. My eyes, my thoughts, were still fixed upon Mercedes. "What else should we be?" answered the stage-driver by my side, "That same we air, an' no mistake about it." "Why have you come here?" "To capter the cussdest cut-throat in all Mexiko: for that same ye air, Mister Capting Carrasco." "_Hola, amigo_! You've made a mistake this time? You appear to take me for the noted Carrasco; and my people, no doubt, for a cuadrilla of salteadores? We're nothing of the sort, I assure you. Only a band of honest _patriotas_; who, loving our country, have continued to fight for it--as you know, after our grand army has seen fit to forsake the field. _Por Dios; senores Americanos_! You're not the men to blame us for that? Just now we acknowledge ourselves vanquished; though still only besieged. But as we have no supplies in our castle here--you will give me credit for some candour in confessing it?--moreover, as we believe it hopeless to hold out against you, we have made up our minds to capitulate. All we ask for ourselves is an honourable _cartel_ of surrender." Surrender! The word fell sweet upon my ears--and for a particular reason. It promised safety for Mercedes. "Come then, caballeros!" pursued the robber-chief; "state your terms; and let me entreat you not to be too exacting!" For some seconds I refrained from making reply--partly astounded by the audacity of the robber--partly considering the answer that should be returned to him. Had it been any other man I might have talked about terms. But it was the wretch Carrasco; and just then I remembered the deception practised upon me in Puebla. I thought of Francisco Moreno lying on his death-bed below, and of my artist friend, who, in all probability, had fallen by the same hand. With the remembrance there sprang up in my mind, not only suspicion, but a fresh feeling of revenge; and by these, not prudence, was my answer inspired. "Terms!" I shouted back, in a tone of undisguised scornfulness; "We make no terms with such as you. Surrender; and then trust to such mercy as may be shown you!"