Several hours must have elapsed, and still my slumbers continued unbroken. Suddenly an uneasy dream disturbed me, and I started upright on the mattress. The lamp was burning gloomily; and the sleepers round the chamber were fast as watchmen. I listened--noises low and indistinct without excited my attention. The sounds were such as men make when they attempt to move unheard. I glided out of bed, and peeped cautiously from the lattice. By Heaven!--the court-yard was filled with dismounted dragoons, and one glance told me that they were enemies. The elder Spaniard lay on the bed next to mine, and I laid my hand softly on his arm. In a moment his dark eyes were turned suspiciously on mine, as I stooped my head and whispered that we were betrayed. He heard the intelligence without any apparent emotion, slipped quietly from his couch, and looked for a moment on the court-yard. I heard him muttering to himself, “Ten--fifteen--twenty--forty in all: the odds are great, and we, too, cut off from the stables. Ha!--let me think--there’s but one hope--the gate first--the river afterwards--ay, there lies the only chance of our deliverance.” Flitting from couch to couch, he awakened his sleeping companions. They seemed to be men accustomed to similar visitations, for not an exclamation escaped their lips, nor even by a word did they betray the least alarm. A finger, pointed towards the casement told its silent tale; and each, as he arose, peeped from the window on the moon-lit court-yard, and immediately comprehended the extent of his danger. In a minute every man was armed and ready for the coming struggle; and we looked to the dark guerilla for orders, as soldiers to their leader. “In a position like ours, safety consists in daring. No matter how great the disparity in numbers, we must not wait to be attacked; but push, at the sword’s point, for the gate--reach the river if possible--spring boldly in, and trust to the Sedana for our freedom. One word more--if you can--escape;--but if the hour is come, fall sword in hand, and let the dying effort be vengeance on the oppressor.’Tis time for action. Strike bravely, my friends: in every blow lies death or freedom. And now for the attempt: in five minutes the Empecinado will be a lifeless corpse, or free as the mountain eagle!” “And are you that dreaded chief?” I inquired. “I am indeed Juan Martin Diez: he whose dreaded by-name has carried terror with it to the boldest enemy of Spain; who lived the scourge of the oppressor, and will die, inflicting injury while his hand can hold a sword, and venting his last breath in curses upon those who would have enslaved him!”