Ha! ha! ha!--look yonder!" Clayley, yelling with laughter, pointed to the corner of the rancho.
Though after a scene so tragic, I could hardly refrain from joining Clayley in his boisterous mirth.

Hanging by the belt of his sabre upon a high picket was the major, kicking and struggling with all his might.
The waist-strap, tightly drawn by the bulky weight of the wearer, separated his body into two vast rotundities, while his face was distorted and purple with the agony of suspense and suspension.

He was loudly bellowing for help, and several soldiers were running towards him; but, from the manner in which he jerked his body up, and screwed his neck, so as to enable him to look over the stockade, it was evident that the principal cause of his uneasiness lay on the "other side of the fence." The truth was, the major, on the first appearance of the enemy, had galloped towards the rear of the corral, and, finding no entrance, had thrown himself from the back of Hercules upon the stockade, intending to climb over; but, having caught a glance of some guerilleros, he had suddenly let go his bridle, and attempted to precipitate himself into the corral.
His waist-belt, catching upon a sharp picket, held him suspended midway, still under the impression that the Mexicans were close upon his rear.
He was soon unhooked, and now waddled across the corral, uttering a thick and continuous volley of his choicest oaths.
Our eyes were now directed towards Hercules.

The horsemen had closed upon him within fifty yards, and were winding their long lazos in the air.

The major, to all appearance, had lost his horse.
After galloping to the edge of the woods, Hercules suddenly halted, and threw up the trailing-bridle with a loud neigh.