“Here is a chance for us; let us charge these fellows!” shouted Carmen, as eight or nine of the enemy rode past us in full retreat; and without pausing for a reply he went off at a gallop, followed by Gahra and myself; for although I had no particular desire to attack men who were flying for their lives and to whom I knew no quarter would be given, it was impossible to hold back when my comrades were rushing into danger.  Had the Spaniards been less intent on getting away it would have fared ill with us.  As it was, we were all wounded.  Gahra got a thrust through the arm, Carmen a gash in the thigh; and as I gave one fellow the point in his throat his spear pierced my hat and cut my head.  If some of the patriots had not come to the rescue our lives would have paid the forfeit of our rashness.

The incident was witnessed by Mejia himself, who, when he recognized Carmen, rode forward, greeted us warmly and remarked that we were just in time.

“To be too late,” answered Carmen, discontentedly, as he twisted a handkerchief round his wounded thigh.

“Not much; and you have done your share.  That was a bold charge you made.  And your friends?  I don’t think I have the pleasure of knowing them.”

Carmen introduced us, and told him who I was.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, senor,” he said, graciously, “and I will give you of my best; but I can offer you only rough fare and plenty of fighting.  Will that content you?”

I bowed, and answered that I desired nothing better.  The guerilla leader was a man of striking appearance, tall, spare, and long limbed.  The contour of his face was Indian; he had the deep-set eyes, square jaws, and lank hair of the abonguil race.  But his eyes were blue, his hair was flaxen, and his skin as fair as that of a pure-blooded Teuton.  Mejia, as I subsequently heard, was the son of a German father and a mestizma mother, and prouder of his Indian than his European ancestry.  It was probably for this reason that he preferred being called Mejia rather than Morgenstern y Mejia, his original appellation.  His hereditary hatred of the Spaniards, inflamed by a sense of personal wrong, was his ruling passion.  He spared none of the race (being enemies) who fell into his hands.  Natives of the country, especially those with Indian blood in their veins, he treated more mercifully—­when his men would let him, for they liked killing even more than they liked fighting, and had an unpleasant way of answering a remonstrance from their officers with a thrust from their spears.

Mejia owed his ascendancy over them quite as much to his good fortune in war as to his personal prowess and resolute character.

“If I were to lose a battle they would probably take my life, and I should certainly have to resign my command,” he observed, when we were talking the matter over after the pursuit (which, night being near, was soon abandoned); “and a llanero leader must lead—­no playing the general or watching operations from the rear—­or it will be the worse for him.”