The orderlies report—­there is movement—­agitation.  I can see the imperious motions of an officer.  I can read the signs.  He is saying, “Back—­back—­for your lives!  Break out through the side streets!” They rush away; they divide; into every street they turn.  Alas! in a few minutes, like wounded birds, they come trailing back.  There is no outlet.  Every street is blockaded, barricaded, and filled with huge masses of men. The rat-trap has another rat-trap outside of it!

The Oligarchy will wait long for those dispatches.  They will never read them this side of eternity.  The pear has ripened.  The inevitable has come.  The world is about to shake off its masters.

There is dead silence.  Why should the military renew the fight in the midst of the awful doubt that rests upon their souls?

Ah! we will soon know the best or worst; for, far away to the west, dark, portentous as a thundercloud—­spread out like the wings of mighty armies—­moving like a Fate over the bright sky, comes on the vast array of the Demons.

“Will they be faithful to their bargain?” I ask myself; “or will old loyalty and faith to their masters rise up in their hearts?”

No, no, it is a rotten age.  Corruption sticks faster than love.

On they come!  Thousands of them.  They swoop, they circle; they pause above the insurgents.  The soldiers rejoice!  Ah, no!  No bombs fall, a meteor of death.  They separate; they move north, south, east, west; they are above the streets packed full of the troops of the government!

May God have mercy on them now!  The sight will haunt me to my dying day.  I can see, like a great black rain of gigantic drops, the lines of the falling bombs against the clear blue sky.

And, oh, my God! what a scene below, in those close-packed streets, among those gaily dressed multitudes!  The dreadful astonishment!  The crash—­the bang—­the explosions; the uproar, the confusion; and, most horrible of all, the inevitable, invisible death by the poison.

The line of the barricade is alive with fire.  With my glass I can almost see the dynamite bullets exploding in the soldiers, tearing them to pieces, like internal volcanoes.

An awful terror is upon them.  They surge backward and forward; then they rush headlong down the streets.  The farther barricades open upon them a hail of death; and the dark shadows above—­so well named Demons—­slide slowly after them; and drop, drop, drop, the deadly missiles fall again among them.

Back they surge.  The poison is growing thicker.  They scream for mercy; they throw away their guns; they are panic-stricken.  They break open the doors of houses and hide themselves.  But even here the devilish plan of Prince Cabano is followed out to the very letter.  The triumphant mob pour in through the back yards; and they bayonet the soldiers under beds, or in closets, or in cellars; or toss them, alive and shrieking, from windows or roofs, down into the deadly gulf below.