Mocho and Cristoval forced themselves into the throng, leading the convoy of women surrounded by the detail which had followed into the Acllahuasi. It was minutes before they could make an avenue through the tribesmen, but at length they gave way, and leaving the two Spaniards to take the rescued to the rear, Mocho turned back to the rampart, which must be held until the women were in safety. Slowly Cristoval forged through the press, keeping close to the wall, and at length the worst was past. A hundred yards more, and they were at Matopo’s barricade and through the breach: Rava was delivered from her peril. Cristoval sought her in the crowd of hysterical women, and reached her side. No time for words. He embraced her once, and before she knew his purpose he was gone. Now she was safe, his duty lay elsewhere. The Antis must be withdrawn. Once more to the front, crowding, staggering, almost fighting his way through the mass, Cristoval became aware that Pedro was behind. He turned and shouted into the cook’s ear: "Back, Pedro! For the sake of Heaven, go to the rear!" There was scorn in Pedro’s voice as he leaned forward and roared, "_Infierno!_" Of damnable obstinacy, this cook! Cristoval pushed on, every step more difficult. Here was an officer. The cavalier seized him by the shoulder, bellowing and gesticulating that the Antis must be retired. Hopeless! Mocho was at the front. Retreat and leave their general? Forward, then, the cavalier, and at last the breastwork. Here was hell’s own fury. The work had been lost and retaken repeatedly by the Antis, and was half demolished, its crest a rampart of dead. Mocho’s men had just been swept from it and the Spaniards were in the street. The square and its approaches at other points had been cleared, and many of the troopers had dismounted to fight here. Their weight had turned the tide, and Mocho had lost some dozen yards. Cristoval reached the point of contact, Pedro close behind and roaring a battle-cry. In the pressure, the foremost of the foes fought shield against shield in a swaying, howling death-struggle of men bereft of reason, the more horrible for the darkness. Cristoval could see nothing, or, vaguely, a wild surging around him. Knew that he was in touch with the enemy only when his buckler rang with the blow of a mace. Then he fought. For the rest, a mere delirium, hardly to be remembered. He heard Mocho’s war-cry, the Morisco’s howl, and knew they were alive. Pedro was beside him. Their two fresh blades in the narrow thoroughfare turned the tide once more, slowly at first, then with a rush, and Cristoval was atop of the breastwork. Battled here a brief minute, and was hurled back by a fresh charge from the square—but with the memory of having seen a spark of fire! A spark of fire! Trivial! But what if it were a lighted gunner’s match?