But their apprehension was speedily relieved. Ned it was who first sighted, carried far back in the ranks of the approaching horsemen, the red, white and blue flag of the republic, with its golden star blazing on the central white band. Never had a flag seemed more welcome to them than this gaudy banner of a South American republic. The leader of the troop, a young man whom they learned later was Colonel Julio Lazard, galloped up to them with a flourish. The Americans all saluted as he pulled up his horse, a fine, black steed, furnished with a high-peaked, chased-leather saddle and bridle, silver ornamented. “Americans!” he exclaimed in fair English. “Gentlemen, this is a happy encounter.” “It is for us!” exclaimed Herc, in a loud aside to Ned. “We mistook you for a scouting party of the enemy, and were about to fire on you,” continued Colonel Lazard cheerfully. “Phew! this impulsive Latin temperament again,” grinned Stanley, behind his hand, to the two boys. In the meantime Midshipman Stark had been responding to the other’s salutations. These formalities concluded, Colonel Lazard informed them that he was at the head of the troops which had been repulsed some days previously by the insurgents. He and his staff officers had succeeded in rallying their men after a precipitate flight into the mountains, and were now advancing to take part in a daring dash to the relief of Boca del Sierras. “The infantry and artillery have gone on ahead,” explained the colonel, “and my cavalry are bringing up the rear in order to guard against any flank attack by the enemy.” “You think there is danger of Boca del Sierras falling?” inquired Midshipman Stark, after Colonel Lazard had explained this much to the adventurers. “I fear that such a catastrophe is in grave danger of occurring,” was the rejoinder. “But with my brave troops----,” he continued grandiloquently. “Just as if they hadn’t all taken to the tall timbers the last time they smelled powder,” whispered the incorrigible Herc. “But with my brave troops,” went on the officer, who, of course, had not heard the remark, “we will save them if it is humanly possible to do so.” “You do not think, then, that the insurgent army of the north has united with the other body of troops?” questioned Mr. Stark. “No,” responded the officer, “and it will be our duty to see that they do not do so. Our scouts inform us, however, that the advance on the city is to be made before noon to-day, so that we have no time to lose. I must marshal my forces at the Hill of the Ten Saints.” The Dreadnought Boys recalled, as he mentioned the name, the location he referred to. It was a small hill outside the city to the north, the value of which, as a strategic position, was at once apparent. Nestling close in under the mighty ramparts of the Sierras themselves, it commanded the northern approach to the city perfectly.