ing fire, they would more likely be
saluted with a full volley, sending a shower of bullets about their
ears. Bad marksmen as the Mexican soldiers are, they could not all
miss. But even if they passed through that unscathed, beyond was the
_garita_ of San Cosme, with another guard there. Indeed, go what way
they would, there was none leading out into the country without a
_garita_ to be got through--and for the country they were aiming.

In these gates, however, there was a difference as to the strength of
their guard detail, and the possibilities of their being passed. All of
which one of the fugitives well understood--Rivas, who, as a matter of
course, had assumed direction of everything relating to their flight.
When opposite the old convent, which gives its name to the street, he
leaned his head out of the carriage window, and said to the _cochero_:--

"Take the route by El Nino Perdido. You know the way; show it to him."

The "him" was Cris Rock, who still had hold of the reins, and who, not
understanding Spanish, could not be addressed direct.

The result of the order was, that shortly after, the horses were headed
into a side street, indicated to the Texan by a nod perceptible only to
himself. It would not do for the real coachman to appear as aiding
their escape; though there was no danger of the dwarf observing it--the
latter having been crammed down into the boot--where he was held with
his head between Rock's huge thighs, as in a vice.

The street into which they had turned was a narrow one running along a
dead wall--that of the ancient monastery, which occupies acres of
ground. And in its strip of sidewalk just then there was not a
pedestrian to be seen--the very thing Rivas had been wishing for. Again
speaking out, he said:--

"Slowly for a bit. I see a _seraph_ out there. Tell the Tejanos to put
it on."

For the next hundred yards or so--along the dead wall--the horses went
at a walk, they inside the carriage, as also one on the box, all the
while busy as bees. And when they came out at the end of the quiet
street entering upon a more frequented thoroughfare, the brisk pace was
resumed; though no one could have believed it the same party, seen but a
minute or two before driving at a racecourse speed along the Calle de
Plateros. Jose alone looked the same, in his sky-blue livery and
cockaded hat. But the big man by his side had so far effected a change
that his mud-stained habiliments we