ery variety of costume —from the richly embroidered tiger-skin chafarreras (leggings) of the chiefs to the simple ca/zoneras (leather trowsers) of their followers; some armed with rifles, others with carbines of every shape and make— most of them with a heavy-dragoon Colt on their belts —and others again with the formidable machete hanging to their saddle-heads; mounted on every class of horse, from the proud camfero to the humble pacer. And this heterogeneous mob had to be assembled and put into some sort of order! No easy matter did it prove; as, on falling in, many riderless horses were yet plunging in the Jazio. Where were their masters? The fate of some few has been told; but many, who only received a certain sum for the expedition, irrespective of results, were engaged in ransacking the various rooms, and appeared at last decked out—some in handsome jackets, others with richly embroidered soméreros, and others again with rich, silver-mounted saddles, which were hastily made fast to their own, to be changed at some more convenient hour—but all bent on making the most of the expedition. The wounded were hastily tied to their seats, the order given to march, and this scene of desolation—one short hour ago so quiet and peaceful—was left behind. And yet one poor creature had escaped with life, unnoticed and uncared for—forgotten by all. Poor little Juan had managed, after a few desperate struggles — the first fright over—to free himself from his bonds, badly tied in the excitement of scaling the walls; and he, poor child! had been a horror-struck spectator of the conflict. It had been
his lot to see his father (dead as he thought) tied to a horse and borne off, and his eldest brother, Pepe, had shared the same fate; he had seen the mozos — his companions and play-fellows—shot while trying to aid their masters, and had witnessed the departure of the band.
What could fe do? The pet at home— young, weak, and timid—his only resource was tears; and such was the terror with which the events of this black night had inspired him, that he never even ventured to descend from the roof, but was found there —having cried himself to sleep—when the neighbors from San Juan came to inspect the place. Once out of the house, no light was needed to guide the party through the hills; but they were not allowed to go altogether unmolested. The vaguero had reached San Juan, and had given the alarm; but, unfortunately, most of the men had gone to the same fes¢a as the sons of Don Cirilo. However, a party of thirty was formed, and hastily arming themselves with such weapons as were most at hand, away they went to the rescue. An hour's ride brought them in sight of the party returning from Barragan; and then took place one of those night-skirmishes, almost fantastical, but fruitless. The townsmen, well mounted, hovered about the retreating band, exchanging pistol-shots incessantly; but soon the robbers struck a path of their own, and thus checked the advance of their pursuers. To amuse them, Bravo detached a small party to cover his retreat, and set off with the main body and his captives in another direction. The ruse—thanks to the darkness — succeeded; and, hearing the galloping of horses on all sides, the San Juan party thought they, in their turn, were to be attacked, and retired in confusion to avoid, as they thought, falling into a trap —not feeling at home in these intricate and dangerous roads. A few parting shots were exchanged, and the bandits, always triumphant, went deeper and deeper into the hills. The unfortunate Don Cirilo had suffered fearfully: the by- way his captors had chosen was but a mere sheep- walk, and the thornbushes and branches scratched and tore his face and legs pitilessly. He wished
