CHAPTER XXXIII.
ROBBINS LAUNCHES A THUNDERBOLT.
My opinion of Hildegarde had undergone a most miraculous change of late.
Time was when I had been sorely inclined to believe her the most frivolous and exacting of her sex; but a complete revolution seemed to have taken place within my mind; old things had passed away, and in the new dispensation she stood out in transcendental glory, a queen among women.
Believing, then, that she possessed uncommon attributes of good sense, I was quite positive she would not give tongue in such a clamorous way unless she saw reason for it.
There was.
A galvanic shock could not have given me a more rapid start than was brought about by her voice. I charged across thatazoteawith hurricane fury.
It did not take me long to understand what was up, for Hildegarde was pointing to the parapet, where, in the starlight I could see some sort of a figure crouching.
The man was in the act of crawling over, but when I made a plunge in his direction he appeared to be seized with a sudden vertigo of fright, for his haste to retreat caused him to lose his grip.
I heard him crash through the branches of a flowering tree below, and made up my mind we would not be seriously inconvenienced by this same climber again.
Where one had dared, there might be others.
I heard Robbins rushing along the escarpment opposite, and knew he had also caught a glimpse of some daring chap.
It became quite lively just then, what with our mad plunges, the battering on the trap, the resonant voice of our excited alcalde, and the shouts of his henchmen.
How it would end, I must confess, I had not the remotest idea.
Suppose they kept up this harassing, guerrilla method of warfare indefinitely, we must sooner or later find ourselves utterly tired out, until finally we dropped from mere exhaustion.
For myself, I could see no remedy, unless we made a bold move, opened the trap and fought our way through the lot; perhaps the bark of our six-shooters might keep the enemy at bay until we reached the street.
What would happen then I had not the least idea—my mind refused to grapple with so intricate a problem, especially while my body was so vigorously engaged.
And, besides, with Hildegarde to protect, it was an utter absurdity.
The fun grew fast and furious, though for the time it was apparently all on one side.
We tumbled several more citizens from their perch before they could actually secure a footing on the roof, while others, seeing us approach, withdrew to a lower and safer coign of vantage.
I almost pitied the poor devils, they were in such hot water, with the terrible Yengees storming above and the explosive alcalde shouting execrations at them below.
It might have been amusing enough to a disinterested spectator, to see the labors of Hercules that Robbins and I performed, but to us it was a most serious matter, indeed.
My legs began to grow unsteady on account of so much unwonted exercise on a warm evening, and I could feel my tongue clinging to the roof of my mouth for want of moisture.
Still they came—I wondered if the supply were inexhaustible, whether we were pitted against the whole city of Bolivar.
At any rate, matters began to look exceedingly serious to me.
Unable to grasp the situation and squeeze any comfort out of it, I turned to Robbins for aid. He had a fertile mind, and might be able to stir up some promising idea.
Besides, Robbins was running the campaign, and knew what connection he had with other sources of strength.
When I found myself near him, I gathered my breath and gasped:
“It’s a bad go.”
He said it was, and his readiness to agree with me rather knocked the props from beneath my hopes.
“I’m nearly out of wind,” I ventured.
“Ditto,” he replied.
That was not very encouraging.
“What can be done?” I demanded, boldly.
“I know only one thing.”
“Then, let’s do it,” I shouted, as I made a wicked dash at a fellow who showed his head above the line of our parapet barricade, and, having caused him to temporarily suspend his intentions, I rushed back to Robbins.
Even his last idea,dernier ressortthough it might be, offered a gleam of hope.
“I hate to—it ain’t time by an hour—perhaps the whole thing might be ruined,” he said.
“Hang it! let her ruin—we’re gone if something doesn’t happen pretty quick,” I cried, desperately.
I might have continued in a similar vein, even growing satirical and bringing in the early bird and worm fable to prove that it was no crime to be an hour ahead of time—where would we be sixty minutes later if this sort of thing kept up—but, really, I lacked both the time and breath to say it.
Nor did I feel in a particularly jovial mood just then, with anxiety for Hildegarde hanging like a millstone around my neck.
“I’ll do it,” said Robbins, vehemently, after the manner of an impulsive man who has swept all obstacles aside.
“Eureka! let her go!” I shouted, and immediately resumed my Pawnee war dance around the combing of the wall in order to convince all bold spirits below what a dangerous thing it would be for any among them to attempt the raid.
Now, I was in the blackest state of ignorance concerning my comrade’s intentions—I knew not whether he expected to blow up thehacienda, together with all in it, or, conjuring a balloon from space, carry the three of us to a place of safety.
All the same, when he declared he would “do it,” I believed him, such was the implicit confidence I placed in the man.
Besides, something had seemed to tell me all along that Robbins had a card up his sleeve which he was loath to play except the game reached a desperate stage.
My curiosity was naturally awakened, for I felt desirous of learning just how far Robbins might have dabbled in the black arts, and what manner of magician he would prove.
Never wizard who brought about more astonishing results.
I saw him run the gamut of the line, whacking away at one or two imaginary heads in order to let those below know he was on duty.
This little promenade brought him slap up against the small tower where the alcalde’s alarm bell hung, the same that had two nights previous thrilled us with its clamorous harangue.
I saw him lean over, and something of the truth flashed upon me—he groped until he had found the clapper, which with one mighty wrench he dislocated, holding it in his hand after the manner of a hammer.
Then he started in.
With quick, energetic strokes, he rang the anvil chorus, each brazen note smiting the air with the power of a cannon shot, and rolling over old Bolivar as though a burst of tropical thunder had broken loose.
How it thrilled me!
As yet I had not fully grasped the whole idea—my first impression seemed to be that Robbins was trying to create a diversion, to add all he could to the clamor, under cover of which we might in some way escape; just as the pearl diver, upon finding a man-eating shark hovering abovehim, stirs up the sand until the water is no longer clear, and he is able to gain his boat unseen.
For once, however, I failed to give my comrade sufficient credit.
He had a better plan than this.
There was a deep significance in the wild alarm that pealed out from the brazen-throated bell under his throbbing strokes.
As I listened and wondered, I heard another bell begin to give tongue some distance away. Then a third took up the refrain.
The air thrilled with the increasing din—I had never heard a greater racket save in a boiler factory.
Nor was the noise confined to this one particular species of sound; men of leathern lungs bellowed upon the streets, sometimes singly, anon in chorus, guns were fired, and horns blown as vigorously as though it were the Angel Gabriel with his trumpet on resurrection day.
Altogether, the ringing of the alcalde’s bell, sending those sharp, strident notes, appeared to have been a signal success, if one could count the noises of pandemonium as a criterion.
Of course, all this must have an effect on the forces by whom we were assailed.
Would they consider it an encouragement to continue their attack—that the whole city was up in arms, determined that this time the Americans, the hated Gringoes, should not escape scot-free?
If so, of what avail would Robbins’ anvil chorus be—surely, we had our hands full as it was, without fresh recruits.
I confess I was exceedingly stupid, it took me such an age to grasp the truth, and once seen the wonder was how I had ever been able to miss it.
In a very few minutes the whole city was apparentlyengaged in the wildest confusion imaginable—why, the night of the flower festa could not begin to compare with this.
Squads and companies of men ran through the streets, bawling at the top of their voices.
At first this did not strike me as in any way singular, until the discharge of guns became more frequent, and the heavy detonation of the brass cannon kept at headquarters brightened my intellect.
Then, thrilled by a sudden suspicion, I bent my ear to catch the word these brawlers were constantly shouting—it was hard to accomplish this, such was the awful jumble of sounds, but at length I succeeded.
“Toreado! Toreado!”
That was our old fire-eating general’s name; what Robbins had said flashed into my mind, and in that second of time I realized what the clang of the alarm bell had brought about, and that poor old Bolivar was wrestling in the throes of another annual revolution.