carried when Sebastian came toward them, brandishing the blade on
high. Pedro Miron, the advocate, was the third to fall. He tried
to scramble out of the negro's path, but, being an old man, his
limbs were too stiff to serve him and he went down shrieking.

By now the horses had caught the scent of hot blood and were
plunging furiously, the clatter of their hoofs mingling with the
blasphemies of the riders, while Sebastian's bestial roaring made
the commotion even more hideous.

Esteban's guests fought as much for their lives as for vengeance
upon the slayer, for Sebastian was like a gorilla; he seemed
intent upon killing them all. He vented his fury upon whatever
came within his reach; he struck at men and animals alike, and the
shrieks of wounded horses added to the din.

It was a frightful combat. It seemed incredible that one man could
work such dreadful havoc in so short a time. Varona and two of his
friends were dead; two more were badly wounded, and a Peruvian
stallion lay kicking on the flagging when Col. Mendoza y Linares
finally managed to get a bullet home in the black man's brain.

Those who came running to learn the cause of the hubbub turned
away sick and pallid, for the paved yard was a shambles. Pancho
Cueto called upon the slaves to help him, but they slunk back to
their quarters, dumb with terror and dismay.

All that night people from the town below came and went and the
quinta resounded to sobs and lamentations, but of all the
relatives of the dead and wounded, Dona Isabel took her