“_Indios—Indios bravos!_” yelled Manuel Navaja, as he discharged his _escopette_ full at the glowing disk of old Sol; then dropping it, he rushed through the outer gates, sounding the terrible words at every step, his affright being shared by all the _peons_ who heard him, and, leaving their posts, one and all swarmed to the main building. There is a spell—a fascination like that of a rattlesnake—that none but the dweller in “the land of the sun” can know. Young and old, men, women and children felt it now, and all rushed into the _hacienda_, only intent upon their own safety. But a clear, stern voice soared above the din, above the shouts of men, the shrieks of women and children; and, aid…
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