midnight
Out swung the stars , blazing , mighty , with black spaces in between . Again rang the trumpet , a high voice proclaiming eternal endeavor . The wind began to blow , and on the plain the cacti , gloomy and fantastic sentinels , moved their stiff bodies , waved their twisted arms in gestures of strangeness and horror . The Spaniard turned on his heel , went down to his men-at-arms where they kept watch and ward , and at midnight , riding like Death on a great , pale steed , led a hundred horsemen out of the fortress , through the tunal , and so down the hillside to the town . The English sentries cried alarm . In the square a man with a knot of velvet in his helm swung himself into the saddle of a captured war-horse , waved aside the blue-jerkined boy at the rein , in a word or two cried over his shoulder managed to impart to those behind him sheer assurance of victory , and was off to greet Don Luiz . They met in the wide street leading from the square , De Guardiola with his hundred cavaliers and Mortimer Ferne with his chance medley of horse and foot .