“I did.  The neighing of a horse.  Halt!  Let us listen.”

“The neighing of a horse and something more.”

“Men’s voices and the rattle of accoutrements.  The patrol, after all.  What shall we do?  To turn back would be fatal.  The ravine is too deep to descend.  Climbing those rocks is out of the question.  There is but one alternative—­we must charge right through them.”

“How many men does a patrol generally consist of?”

“Sometimes two, sometimes four.”

“May it not be a squadron on the march?”

“It may.  No matter.  We must charge them, all the same.  Better die sword in hand than be garroted on the plaza.  We have one great advantage.  We shall take these fellows by surprise.  Let us wait here in the shade, and the moment they round that corner, go at them, full gallop.”

The words were scarcely spoken, when two dragoons came in sight, then two more.

“Four!” murmured Carmen.  “The odds are not too great.  We shall do it.  Are you ready?  Now!”

The dragoons, surprised by our sudden appearance, pulled up and stood stock-still, as if doubtful whether our intentions were hostile or friendly; and we were at them almost before they had drawn their swords.

As I charged the foremost Spaniard, his horse swerved from the road, and rolled with his rider into the ravine.  The second, profiting by his comrade’s disaster, gave us the slip and galloped toward Caracas.  This left us face to face with the other two, and in little more than as many minutes I had run my man through, and Carmen had hurled his to the ground with a cleft skull.

“I thought we should do it,” he said as he sheathed his sword.  “But before we ride on let us see who the fellows are, for, ’pon my soul, they have not the looks of a patrol from Caracas.”

As he spoke, Carmen dismounted and closely examined the prostrate men’s facings.

“Caramba! They belong to the regiment of Irun.”

“I remember them.  They were in Murillo’s corp d’armee at Vittoria.”

“I wish they were at Vittoria now.  Their headquarters are at La Victoria!  Worse luck!”

“Why?”

“Because there may be more of them.  You suggested just now the possibility of a squadron.  How if we meet a regiment?”

“We should be in rather a bad scrape.”

“We are in a bad scrape, amigo mio.  Unless, I am greatly mistaken the regiment of Irun, or, at any rate, a squadron of it is on the march hitherward.  If they started at sunrise and rested during the heat of the day, this is about the time the advance-guard would be here.  Having no enemy to fear in these parts, they would naturally break up into small detachments; there has been no rain for weeks, and the dust raised by a large body of horsemen is simply stifling.  However, we may as well go forward to certain death as go back to it.  Besides, I hate going back in any circumstances.  And we have just one chance.  We must hurry on and ride for our lives.”