Simultaneously, from
somewhere outside the house, arose the notes of a Spanish bugle-
call.
Young Varona waited to hear no more. Nor did his men; realizing
the peril into which they had been led, they bolted from the house
as fast as they could go. There was no need for questions; from
the direction of the sugar-mill came bellowed orders and the sound
of men shouting to their horses. Evidently those were troops--and
trained troops, too, for they took no time to saddle; they were up
and mounted almost before the marauders had gained the backs of
their own animals. There was no opportunity to choose a retreat
across the fields; Esteban spurred down the driveway toward the
main calzada, yelling to his men to follow him.
The approach to La Joya was by way of a notable avenue, perhaps a
half-mile in length, and bordered by tall, even rows of royal
palms. These stately trees shaded the avenue by day and lent it a
cavern-like gloom by night. Near the public causeway the road was
cut through a bit of rising ground, and was walled by steep banks
overgrown with vines.
Into the black tunnel formed by the palms the fugitives plunged,
with the clatter of hoofs close behind them. Those of the
Volunteers who pressed them hardest began to shoot wildly, for
this typically Cuban refusal to stand ground enraged them beyond
measure.
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