"Your life!" was the laconic reply, spoken by a man of sinister aspect, "your life, _filibustero_! And we mean to have it. So you may as well put up your pistol. If not, we'll take it from you. Yield, Yankee, if you don't want to be killed on the spot!" "You may kill me," I responded, looking the ruffian full in the face, "but not till after I've killed you, worthy sir. You hear me, cavallero! The first that stirs a step towards me, will go down in his tracks. It will be yourself--if you have the courage to come first." I cannot describe how I felt at that queer crisis. I only remember that I was as cool, as if rehearsing the scene for amusement--instead of being engaged in a real and true tragedy that must speedily terminate in death! My coolness, perhaps, sprang from despair, or an instinct that nought else could avail me. My words, with the gestures that accompanied them, were not without effect. The tall man, who appeared to lead the party, saw that I had selected him for my first shot, and cowered back into the thick of the crowd. But among his associates there were some of more courage, or greater determination; and the cry, "Muera el Americano!" once more shouted on all sides, gave a fresh stimulus to the passions of the _patriotas_. Besides, the crowd was constantly growing greater, through fresh arrivals in the street. I could see that the six-shooter would not much longer keep my assailants at a distance. There appeared not the slightest chance of escape. A death, certain as cruel--sudden, terrible to contemplate--stared me in the face. I saw no way of avoiding it. I had no thought of there being a possibility to do so--no thought of anything, save selling my life as dearly as I could. Before falling, I should make a hecatomb of my cowardly assassins. I saw no pistols or other firearms in their hands--nothing but knives and _machetes_. They could only reach me from the front; and, before they could close upon me, I felt certain of being able to discharge every chamber of my two revolvers. At least half a dozen of my enemies were doomed to die before me. I was in a splendid position for defence. The house against which I had been brought to bay was built of _adobes_, with walls full three feet thick. The door was indented to a depth of at least two. I stood with my back against it, the jambs on both sides protecting me. My position was that of the badger in the barrel attacked by terriers. How long I might have been permitted to hold it is a question I will not undertake to answer. No doubt it would have depended upon the courage of my assailants, and the stimulus supplied by that patriotic cry still shouted out, "_Muera el Americano_!" But none of those who were shouting had reached that climax of recklessness, to rush upon the certain death which I stood ready to deal out.