“Let us push on,” said Carmen.  “If anybody accosts us don’t answer a word, and fight only at the last extremity, to save ourselves from capture or death; and, above all things, silence in the ranks.”

The night was clear, the sky studded with stars, and, except where trees overhung the road, we could see some little distance ahead, the only direction in which we had reason to apprehend danger.

Carmen and I rode in front; Gahra and Guido a few yards in the rear.

We had not been under way more than a few minutes when Gahra uttered an exclamation.

“Hist, senores!  Look behind!” he said.

Turning half round in our saddles and peering intently into the gloom we could just make out what seemed like a body of horsemen riding swiftly after us.

“Probably a belated foraging party returning to camp,” said Carmen.  “Deucedly awkward, though!  But they have, perhaps, no desire to overtake us.  Let us go on just fast enough to keep them at a respectful distance.”

But it very soon became evident that the foraging party—­if it were a foraging party—­did desire to overtake us.  They put on more speed; so did we.  Then came loud shouts of “Halte!” These producing no effect, several pistol shots were fired.

“Dios mio!” said Carmen; “they will rouse the camp, and the road will be barred.  Look here, Fortescue; about two miles farther on is an open glade which we have to cross, and which the fellows must also cross if they either meet or intercept us.  The trail to the left leads to the llanos.  It runs between high banks, and is so narrow that one resolute man may stop a dozen.  If any of the gauchos get there before us we are lost.  Your horse is the fleetest.  Ride as for your life and hold it till we come.”

Before the words were well out of Carmen’s mouth, I let Pizarro go.  He went like the wind.  In six minutes I had reached my point and taken post in the throat of the pass, well in the shade.  And I was none too soon, for, almost at the same instant, three llaneros dashed into the clearing, and then, as if uncertain what to do next, pulled up short.

“Whereabout was it?  What trail shall we take?” asked one.

“This” (pointing to the road I had just quitted).

“Don’t you hear the shouts?—­and there goes another pistol shot!”

“Better divide,” said another.  “I will stay here and watch.  You, Jose, go forward, and you, Sanchez, reconnoitre the llanos trail.”

Jose went his way, Sanchez came my way.

Still in the shade and hidden, I drew one of my pistols and cocked it, fully intending, however, to reserve my fire till the last moment; I was loath to shoot a man with whom I had served only a few days before.  But when he drew near, and, shouting my name, lowered his lance, I had no alternative; I fired, and as he fell from his horse, the others galloped into the glade.