and twice he scaled them, though unable to clear them completely. This chief was Mixcoatzin. His black eye flashed with a sombre fire; his arm seemed indefatigable; and everyone withdrew from this terrible enemy, who was apparently invincible.
The sachem redoubled his boldness, incessantly urging on his men, and insulting the whites by his shouts and ironical gestures.
Suddenly a third troop appeared on the battlefield, which, owing to the braziers, was as light as day. But this troop, composed, like the second, of horsemen, instead of joining the Indians, formed a semicircle, and charged them furiously, shouting, —
"A muerte—a muerte!"
Valentine's powerful voice at this moment rose above the tumult of battle, and even reached those he wished to warn.
"Now is the time!" he shouted.
The count heard him. Turning then to fifty of the adventurers who bad remained inactive since the beginning of the action, chafing and trailing their arms, —
"It is our turn, comrades!" he shouted as he drew his long sword. Then, opening the wicket, he bounded boldly into the mêlée, followed by his party, who rushed after him with shouts of joy. The Indians were caught between two fires – a thing which rarely happens – and compelled to fight in the open. Still they were not discouraged, for Indian bravery surpasses all belief. Finding themselves surrounded, they resolved to die bravely sooner than surrender; and though not nearly so well armed as their enemies, they received their attack with unlessened resolution.
But the Indians, on this occasion, had not to do with Mexicans, and soon discovered the difference. The charge of the Frenchmen was irresistible: they passed like a tornado through the redskins, who, in spite of their resolution, were compelled to give ground. But flight was impossible. Recalled by the voices of their chiefs, who, while themselves fighting bravely, did not cease to urge them to redouble their efforts, they returned to the combat. The struggle then assumed the gigantic proportions of a horrible carnage. It was no longer a battle, but a butchery, in which each sought to kill, caring little about falling himself, so long as he dragged down his foeman with him.
Valentine, the greater part of whose life had been spent in the desert, and who had frequently encountered the Indians, had never before seen them display so great animosity, and, above all, such obstinacy; for usually, when they suffer a check, far from obstinately continuing a fight without any possible advantageous result for themselves, they retire immediately, and seek safety in a hurried flight; but this time their mode of fighting was completely changed, and it seemed that the more they recognised the impossibility of victory, the more anxious they felt to resist.
The count, ever in front of his comrades, whom he encouraged by his gestures and voice, tried to approach Mixcoatzin, who, still curveting on his black horse, performed prodigies of valour, which electrified his men, and threatened, if not to change the face of the combat, at any rate to prolong it. But each time that chance brought him in front of the chief, and he prepared to rush upon him, a crowd of combatants, driven back by the changing incidents of the fight, came between them, and neutralised his efforts.
For his part, the sachem also strove to approach the count, with whom he burned to measure himself, persuaded that, if he succeeded in killing the chief of the palefaces, the latter would be struck with terror, and abandon the battlefield.
At length, as if by mutual agreement, the white men and Indians fell back a few paces, doubtlessly to prepare for a final contest; and it was then that, for the first time since the combat, the count and the sachem found themselves face to face. The two men exchanged a flashing glance, and rushed upon each other furiously. Neither of the chiefs had firearms: the sachem brandished his terrible club, and the count waved his long sword, which was reddened to the hilt.
"At last!" the count shouted, as he raised his weapon over his head.
"Begging dog of the palefaces," the Indian said with a grin, "you bring me, then, your scalp, that I may attach it to the entrance of my cabin!"
They were only two paces from each other, each awaiting the favourable moment to rush on his enemy. On seeing their chiefs ready to engage, the two parties rushed forward impetuously, in order to separate them and recommence the combat; bat Don Louis, with a gesture of supreme command, ordered his companions not to interfere. The adventurers remained motionless. On his side, Mixcoatzin, seeing the noble and gallant courtesy of the count, commanded his comrades to keep back. The redskins obeyed, and the question was left to be decided between Don Louis and the sachem.
CHAPTER VI
REPRISALS
The two enemies hesitated for a moment; but suddenly the sachem bounded forward. The count remained motionless; but at the moment the Indian reached him, with a movement rapid as thought, he seized the nostrils of the chief's horse with the left hand, so that it reared with a shriek of pain, and thrust his sword into the Indian's throat: the latter's lifted arm fell down, his eyes opened widely, a jet of blood poured from the gaping wound, and he rolled on the ground, uttering a yell of agony, and writhing like a serpent. The count placed his foot on the chief's chest, and nailed him to the ground. Then he shouted to his comrades in a powerful voice, —
"Forward – forward!"
The adventurers responded by a shout of triumph, and rushed once more on the redskins. But the latter no longer awaited their attack. Terrified by the death of Mixcoatzin, one of their most revered sachems, a panic seized upon them, and they fled in every direction. Then began a real manhunt, with all its hideous and atrocious interludes. As we have said, the Indians were surrounded: flight had become impossible. The adventurers, exasperated by the long contest they had been obliged to sustain, pitilessly massacred their conquered enemies, who would have implored mercy in vain. The distracted Indians ran hither and thither, sabred as they passed, transfixed by bayonets, and trampled underfoot by the horses, which, as cruel as their masters, and intoxicated by the sharp odour of blood, stamped on them frenziedly. The corpses were piled up in the centre of the fatal circle which incessantly closed in around them.
Their courage and strength all exhausted, the wretched redskins had thrown away their arms, and, with their hands crossed on their chests, they gave up any further struggle for life, and awaited death with that gloomy calmness of despair and stoicism which characterises their race.
The count had wished for a long time to arrest this horrible carnage; but, in the intoxication of victory, his orders were not so much disobeyed as unheard. Still the Frenchmen stopped, struck with admiration at the sight of the stoical resignation displayed by their brave enemies, who disdained to ask mercy, and prepared to die worthily, without any weakness or bravado. The Frenchmen hesitated, looked at one another, and then raised their bayonets. The count profited by this truce, and rushed before his men, brandishing in the air his sword, reddened to the hilt.
"Enough, comrades," he shouted, "enough! We are soldiers, not hangmen or butchers. Leave to the Mexicans all cowardly acts, and remain what you have ever been – brave and clement men. Mercy for these poor wretches!"
"Mercy – mercy!" the Frenchmen shouted as they brandished their weapons above their heads.
At this moment the sun rose gloriously in a flood of vapour. It was a scene at once imposing and full of sublime horror which the battlefield offered – still smoking with the last explosions of the firearms, covered with corpses, and in the midst of which thirty disarmed men appeared to bid defiance to a circle of men stained with blood and powder, and whose features were contracted by passion.
The count then returned his sword to its scabbard, and walked slowly toward the Indians, who watched his approach restlessly; for they understood nothing of what had just occurred.
