“He leaped aside, lowering his port-fire, and a burst of flame darted out of the muzzle of the gun lashed on the man’s back.

“Then Gaspar Ruiz lowered himself slowly.  ‘Good shot?’ he asked.

“‘Full on, senor.’

“‘Then load again.’

“He lay there before me on his breast under the darkly glittering bronze of his monstrous burden, such as no love or strength of man had ever had to bear in the lamentable history of the world.  His arms were spread out, and he resembled a prostrate penitent on the moonlit ground.

“Again I saw him raised to his hands and knees and the men stand away from him, and old Jorge stoop glancing along the gun.

“’Left a little.  Right an inch.  Por Dios, senor, stop this trembling.  Where is your strength?’

“The old gunner’s voice was cracked with emotion.  He stepped aside, and quick as lightning brought the spark to the touch-hole.

“‘Excellent!’ he cried, tearfully; but Gaspar Ruiz lay for a long time silent, flattened on the ground.

“‘I am tired,’ he murmured at last.  ‘Will another shot do it?’

“‘Without doubt,’ said Jorge, bending down to his ear.

“‘Then—­load,’ I heard him utter distinctly.  ‘Trumpeter!’

“‘I am here, senor, ready for your word.’

“’Blow a blast at this word that shall be heard from one end of Chile to the other,’ he said, in an extraordinarily strong voice.  ’And you others stand ready to cut this accursed riata, for then will be the time for me to lead you in your rush.  Now raise me up, and you, Jorge—­be quick with your aim.’

“The rattle of musketry from the fort nearly drowned his voice.  The palisade was wreathed in smoke and flame.

“‘Exert your force forward against the recoil, mi amo,’ said the old gunner, shakily.  ‘Dig your fingers into the ground.  So.  Now!’

“A cry of exultation escaped him after the shot.  The trumpeter raised his trumpet nearly to his lips and waited.  But no word came from the prostrate man.  I fell on one knee, and heard all he had to say then.

“‘Something broken,’ he whispered, lifting his head a little, and turning his eyes towards me in his hopelessly crushed attitude.

“‘The gate hangs only by the splinters,’ yelled Jorge.

“Gaspar Ruiz tried to speak, but his voice died out in his throat, and I helped to roll the gun off his broken back.  He was insensible.

“I kept my lips shut, of course.  The signal for the Indians to attack was never given.  Instead, the bugle-calls of the relieving force for which my ears had thirsted so long, burst out, terrifying like the call of the Last Day to our surprised enemies.