I was reflecting, I remember, that this would be an ill path to drive with a drunken coachman, when suddenly I saw the off-front mule stumble unaccountably, and, as it fell, heard a shot fired close at hand.  Next instant also I saw the driver and his companion spring from the box, and, with a yell of terror, plunge over the edge of the cliff, apparently into the depths below.  Then from the narrow compass of that coach arose a perfect pandemonium of sounds, with an under cry of a single word, “Brigands!  Brigands!”

The merchants shouted, supplicated their saints, and swore as with trembling hands they tried to conceal loose valuables in their boots and hats; one of the priests too literally howled in his terror, but the other, a man of more dignity, only bowed his head and murmured a prayer.  By this time also the mules had tied themselves into a knot and were threatening to overturn the coach, to prevent which our captors, before meddling with us, cut the animals loose with their machetes or swords, and drove them over the brink of the abyss, where, like the drivers, they vanished.  Then a dusky-faced ruffian, with a scar on his cheek, came to the door of the diligence and bowing politely beckoned to us to come out.  As there were at least a dozen of them and resistance was useless, even if our companions could have found the courage to fight, we obeyed, and were placed before the brigands in a line, our backs being set to the edge of the gulf.  I was last but one in the line, and beyond me stood Emma Becker, whose hand I held.

Then the tragedy began.  Several of the villains seized the first merchant, and, stopping his cries and protestations with a blow in the mouth, stripped him to the shirt, abstracting notes and gold and everything else of value that they could find in various portions of his attire where he had hidden them, and principally, I remember, from the lining of his vest.  When they had done with him, they dragged him away and bundled him roughly into the diligence.

Next to this merchant stood the two priests.  Of the first of these the brigands asked a question, to which, with some hesitation, the priest—­that man who had shown so much terror—­replied in the affirmative, whereon his companion looked at him contemptuously and muttered a Spanish phrase which means “Man without shame.”  Of him also the same question was asked, in answer to which he shook his head, whereon he was conducted, though without violence or being searched, to the coach, and shut into it with the plundered merchant.  Then the thieves went to work with the next victim.

“Dr. Therne,” whispered Emma Becker, “you have a pistol, do you not?”

I nodded my head.

“Will you lend it me?  You understand?”

“Yes,” I answered, “I understand, but I hope that things are not so bad as that.”

“They are,” she answered with a quiver in her voice.  “I have heard about these Mexican brigands.  With the exception of that priest and myself they will put all of you into the coach and push it over the precipice.”