"See that yours are loaded and in firing order," Rivas added, at the same time looking to his own. The injunction was not needed, as the Irishman was already examining the weapons put into his hand, with a view to their efficiency. Both pair of pistols were of the old-fashioned duelling kind-- flintlocks, with barrels nearly a foot in length. Like as not the Condesa's father and Don Ignacio Valverde, in days long gone by, had vindicated honour with them. The inspection was quick and short, as had been all that preceded; pans sprung open, showing them filled with powder; rammers run into the barrels, then drawn out again, and replaced in their thimbles. "Mine," said Kearney, first to report, "are good for two lives." "And mine the same," rejoined Rivas, "unless I'm laid low before I can pull the second trigger. Now to dispose of the knives. My countryman, the _cochero_, however trustworthy, mustn't show fight. That would ruin all afterwards. But, if I mistake not, your colossal comrade is the man to make play with one of them in a pinch." "You may be sure of it. He was in the Alamo with Bowie, and at Goliad with Fanning. Don't fear putting a knife into his hands; he'll make good use of it if we're driven to close quarters." "Let him have it, then. You give it, and tell him all." Kearney getting hold of one of the two knives, that seeming best suited for the hands he designed putting it in, passed it on to Cris Rock--not through the carriage window, but a hole cut in the leathern hood by the blade itself. Speaking through the same, he said-- "Cris! we've got to run a gate where there's a guard of soldiers--maybe a dozen or so. You're to drive gently up, and, if you see it open, pass through--then lay on the whip. Should it be shut, approach more briskly, and pull up impatient-like. But do nothing of yourself--wait till I give you the word." "Trust me, Cap; ye kin do that, I kilk'late." "I can, Cris. Take this knife, and if you hear pistols cracking behind, you'll then know what to do with it." "I gie a guess, anyhow," rejoined the Texan, taking hold of the knife, in a hand passed behind him. Then bringing it forward and under his eyes, he added, "'Taint sech a bad sort o' blade eyther, tho' I weesh 'twas my ole bowie they took from me at Mier. Wal, Cap; ye kin count on me makin' use o't, ef 'casion calls, an' more'n one yaller-belly gittin' it inter his guts; notwithstandin' this durnation clog that's swinging at my legs. By the jumping Geehosophat, if I ked only git shet o' that I'd--" What he would do or intended saying, had to stay unsaid. Rivas interrupted him, pulling Kearney back, and telling him to be ready with the pistols. For they were nearing the place of danger. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. AN UNLOOKED-FOR SALUTE.