Sebastian had braced his naked feet against the wall; he had bowed his back and bent his massive shoulders—­a back and a pair of shoulders that looked as bony and muscular as those of an ox—­and he was heaving with every ounce of strength in his enormous body.  As Pablo stared he saw the heavy grating come away from its anchorage in the solid masonry, as a shrub is uprooted from soft ground.  The rods bent and twisted; there was a clank and rattle and clash of metal upon the flags; and then—­Sebastian turned upon his tormentor, a free man, save only for the wide iron bracelets and their connecting chain.  He was quite insane.  His face was frightful to behold; it was apelike in its animal rage, and he towered above his master like some fabled creature out of the African jungle of his forefathers.

Sebastian’s fists alone would have been formidable weapons, but they were armored and weighted with the old-fashioned, hand-wrought irons which Pancho Cueto had locked upon them.  Wrapping the chain in his fingers, the slave leaped at Esteban and struck, once.  The sound of the blow was sickening, for the whole bony structure of Esteban Varona’s head gave way.

There was a horrified cry from the other white men.  Don Pablo Peza ran forward, shouting.  He swung his machete, but Sebastian met him before the blow could descend, and they went down together upon the hard stones.  Again Sebastian smote, with his massive hands wrapped in the chain and his wrists encased in steel, and this time it was as if Don Pablo’s head had been caught between a hammer and an anvil.  The negro’s strength, exceptional at all times, was multiplied tenfold; he had run amuck.  When he arose the machete was in his grasp and Don Pablo’s brains were on his knuckles.

It all happened in far less time than it takes to tell.  The onlookers had not yet recovered from their first consternation; in fact they were still fumbling and tugging at whatever weapons they 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.