Again the red heads
sounded their trumpet, and went out boldly to meet the new-comers. As
the two bands approached each other, each led by a big boy, who turned
at intervals and with many wild gestures addressed his followers,
apparently to encourage them, I was amazed to see them all suddenly
draw out long knives, such as the native horsemen usually wear, and
rush furiously together. In a moment they were mingled together in a
desperate fight, uttering the most horrible yells, their long weapons
glittering in the sunshine as they brandished them about. With such
fury did they fight that in a few moments all the combatants lay
stretched out on the grass, excepting three boys wearing the red badges.
One of these bloodthirsty young miscreants then snatched up the trumpet
and blew a victorious blast, while the other two shrieked an
accompaniment of _vivas_ and _mueras_. While they were thus
occupied one of the white-headed boys struggled to his feet, and,
snatching up a knife, charged the three reds with desperate courage.
Had I not been perfectly paralysed with amazement at what I had
witnessed, I should then have rushed out to aid this boy in his forlorn
attempt; but in an instant his three foes were on him and dragged him
down to the ground. Two of them then held him fast by the legs and
arms, the other raised his long knife, and was just about to plunge
it in the struggling captive's breast, when, uttering a loud yell, I
sprang up and rushed at them.
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