It was then that the explorers seemed to reach the utmost limit of their misfortunes. Except for Andrew's pocket-knife and the revolvers of Herran and Miranda, they were without weapons, and thus practically defenseless in the thick of a combat that at every moment gained in intensity. They were bewildered by the flashing lights of the torches, and kept getting in the way of Anitoo's men at the most inopportune times. Naturally, General Herran, as the only one among them who had been in actual military service, did his best to keep the others in some sort of order; but his protests and commands, unintelligible to all but Miranda, went for very little. In vain he looked for some sheltered corner into which he could withdraw his little party; but the fierce fighting all around them shut off any such easy way of escape. There seemed to be nothing to do but stay where they were--and be shot, as Mrs. Quayle hysterically put it. And the shooting certainly increased enough in volume every moment to warrant that lady's dismal view of the matter. But Herran, although fighting in caves was quite out of his line, was not the kind of soldier to give up in despair--even with two women on his hands and three men who were quite as inexperienced and helpless in warfare as the women. The fiasco of Panama still rankled in his soul, and he resolved this time to let as few of the enemy escape him as possible. It was a serious business, but--at least he had a revolver, and he intended to use it. Plunging ahead of the others into the thick of the mob that faced him, he shot right and left, and--according to Miranda, who watched the affair delightedly--every shot found its mark. This was all very well, and cheering enough to the explorers. It looked, indeed, for the moment, as if the tide of battle was about to be turned in their favor by the Hero of Panama. But then, all of a sudden, as was bound to happen, the General's cartridges gave out, leaving him an animated sort of target in the midst of the men he had been attacking with such ferocity. There were cries of dismay from those who had been watching his brave exploit, a roar of rage from Miranda, who rushed forward, revolver in hand, to defend his old comrade. But Miranda was too late. A burly caveman, one of those who had borne the brunt of Herran's onslaught, seeing the latter's plight, whirled aloft a huge club that he carried and brought it down with fatal effect upon the General's head. It was a Homeric blow, and the fall of the hero under it, sung in epic verse, would be described as the crashing to earth of a monarch of the forest, a bull, a lion, or something equally majestic and thunderous.