His face was
swollen with passion, his eyes were starting from their sockets, his
long hair tossed wildly. The boys watched him with cold extremities and
hot cheeks and eyes. They were oblivious to the rest of the battlefield.
The fate of the indomitable chief, upon whose life the freedom of a race
perhaps depended, would have riveted the attention of older and wiser
brains. His movements were easy to follow; he was head above all and
shoulders above many.
Suddenly the boys gave a gasp. The head of Anastacio was no longer to be
seen above that surging throng. Had he been wounded in a vital part? A
moment later they gave a hoarse gurgling cry and clung together, shaking
like children in icy water. The head of Anastacio rose again--above the
crowd, then higher,--higher,--until it looked down upon the squirming
mass from six feet above. It was on the end of a pole.
XI
The boys turned and fled, scrambling blindly upwards. Instinctively they
ran in the direction of the pueblo, and when they were finally obliged
to sit down and fight for their lost breath they realised the course
they had taken.
The horror was still in their eyes, but neither spoke of what for a long
while to come must be uppermost in his mind.
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