Having no cause to be particularly _angry_ with anybody, I stood where I had risen, without using either knife or pistol, my frightened _maja_ all the while holding me by the hand. A painful sensation near my left shoulder caused me suddenly to drop my partner; and with that unaccountable weakness consequent upon the reception of a wound, I felt myself staggering towards the banquette. Here I dropped into a sitting posture, and remained till the struggle was over, conscious all the while that a stream of blood was oozing down my back, and saturating my undergarments. I sat thus till the struggle had ended. A light was brought, and I could distinguish a number of men in hunting-shirts moving to-and-fro with violent gesticulations. Some of them were advocating the justice of the "spree," as they termed it; while others, the more respectable of the traders, were denouncing it. The leperos with the women, had all disappeared, and I could perceive that the Americanos had carried the day. Several dark objects lay along the floor: they were bodies of men dead or dying! One was an American, the Missourian who had been the immediate cause of the fracas; the others were pelodos. I could see nothing of my late acquaintance. My fandanguera, too--_con su marido_-- had disappeared; and on glancing at my left hand, I came to the conclusion that so also had my diamond ring! "Saint Vrain! Saint Vrain!" I called, seeing the figure of my friend enter at the door. "Where are you, H., old boy. How is it with you? all right, eh?" "Not quite, I tear." "Good heavens! what's this? why, you're stabbed in the hump ribs! Not bad, I hope. Off with your shirt and let's see." "First, let us to my room." "Come, then, my dear boy, lean on me--so, so!" The fandango was over. CHAPTER EIGHT. SEGUIN THE SCALP-HUNTER. I have had the pleasure of being wounded in the field of battle. I say pleasure. Under certain circumstances, wounds are luxuries. How different were the feelings I experienced while smarting under wounds that came by the steel of the assassin! My earliest anxiety was about the depth of my wound. Was it mortal? This is generally the first question a man puts to himself, after discovering that he has been shot or stabbed. A wounded man cannot always answer it either. One's life-blood may be spurting from an artery at each palpitation, while the actual pain felt is not worth the pricking of a pin. On reaching the Fonda, I sank exhausted on my bed. Saint Vrain split my hunting-shirt from cape to skirt, and commenced examining my wound. I could not see my friend's face as he stood behind me, and I waited with impatience. "Is it deep?" I asked.