But their progress was necessary slow and scarcely perceptible. They had not
proceeded ten paces when a sudden clamor was heard—the clamor and the clash of
arms, the unfolding of heavy gates, and the rapid tread of approaching soldiers. The
inner court gates had been thrown wide open, and the Gallician augured from this
that the guards were about to return, mounted on horseback for the strife. With
the thoughts of the plunging of horses among the unarmed and crowded population,
he turned quickly and caught up his sister in his arms.

“What is that, brother?—is there danger?” she demanded, trembling with new
terrors as she looked upon his countenance, where ferocity began to be qualified by
apprehension and anxiety.

“Ay, Toly—a little, but not for you, Toly. You shall be safe.”

She clung to him as she cried:

“Yes, Toro, you can save me, I know. You are strong enough—as strong as
any of these men. But, make haste, Toro, for I fear the crowd, and they squeeze
me dreadfully now.”

He set his teeth firmly and made no answer as he struggled forward with his burthen,
but he muttered to himself while he did it, and, to the quick ear of Toly, his
mutterings were half audible.

“I will try to save you, Toly—with my own life will I try. I am strong, true,
as any one of these, but not as all.”

“Oh, Toro! what is it you say? Can you not save me? Haste, brother! remember
our poor mother—let them not crush me thus. Save me! save me!”

The breathing of Toro was suppressed awhile. He strove with the right arm extended,
and bearing the girl in the other, to force the passage. While he strove, one
of the flying crowd who was behind him, grappled his shoulder with the same
object. The fierce Gallician turned and smote him in the mouth with the handle of
his axe which he still held firmly, as a weapon might soon become imperatively necessary.
The fellow gave back in terror, and Toro resumed his flight. A woman lay
struggling under his feet—the terrors of the girl within his arms made him reckless,
and the bosom of the fallen and writhing victim became his stepping stone, as it
had already been that of hundreds. He pressed onward, certainly but slowly, and
began to hope; but, looking over the track before him, the entire area was still covered
with dense and struggling masses. He was almost spent. The sweat trickled
from his brow, and the weight grew almost insupportable upon his arm.

“Oh, Toly!” he exclaimed, in mournful accents, which reproached her more
painfully than stern language could have done—“oh, Toly! why did you follow
me!”

“Forgive me, brother,” she whispered, rather than spoke—“forgive me—I was
a foolish child—forgive me and save me! Save me, Toro, this time, and I will
never vex you again. I will try and do everything for you, Toro. I will never
marry—no! not even if Diego should ask me—if you will only save me.”

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He kissed her—amid the crowd, none of whom beheld it—he kissed her, while
he murmured, resolutely but sadly:

“Ay, Toly! if I die for it, I will save you. Be of heart, and let us try once
more. The Blessed Mother be with us—we will try once more.”