Chapter Eight.

Chapter Eight.A Rival Tracked to his Roof-Tree.That Iwasforestalled, there could be no mistake.There was no ambiguity about the meaning of the phrase: “God be with you, dear Francis!” The coldest heart could not fail to interpret it—coupled with the act to which it had been an accompaniment.My heart was on fire. There was jealousy in it; and, more: there was anger.I believed, or fancied, that I had cause. If ever woman had given me encouragement—by looks and smiles—that woman was Mercedes Villa-Señor.All done to delude me—perhaps but to gratify the slightest whim of her woman’s vanity? She had shown unmistakeable signs of having noted my glances of admiration. They were too earnest to have been misunderstood. Perhaps she may have been a little flattered by them? But, whether or no, I was confident of having received encouragement.Once, indeed, a flower had been dropped from thebalcon. It had the air of an accident—with just enough design to make the act difficult of interpretation. With the wish father to the thought, I accepted it as a challenge; and, hastening along the pavement, I stooped, and picked the flower up.What I then saw was surely an approving smile—one that seemed to say: “in return for your sword-knot.” I thought so at the time; and fancied I could see the tassel, protruding from a plait in the bodice of the lady’s dress—shown for an instant, and then adroitly concealed.This sweet chapter of incidents occurred upon the occasion of my tenth stroll through the Calle del Obispo. It was the last time I had the chance of seeing Mercedes by twilight. After that came the irksome interval of seclusiveness,—now to be succeeded by a prolonged period of chagrin: for the dropping of thebillet-doux, and the endearing speech, had put an end to my hopes—as effectually as if I had seen Mercedes enfolded in Francisco’s arms.Along with my chagrin I felt spite. I was under the impression that I had beenplayed with.Upon whom should I expend it? On the Señorita?There was no chance. She had retired from the balcony. I might never see her again—there, or elsewhere? Who then? The man who had been before me in her affections?Should I cross over the street—confront—pick a quarrel with him, and finish it at my sword’s point? An individual whom I had never seen, and who, in all probability, had never set eyes upon me!Absurd as it may appear—absolutely unjust as it would have been—this was actually my impulse!It was succeeded by a gentler thought. Francisco’s face was favourable to him. I saw it more distinctly, as he leant forward under the lamp to decipher the contents of the note. It was such a countenance as one could not take offence at, without good cause; and a moment’s reflection convinced me that mine was not sufficient. He was not only innocent of the grief his rivalry had given me, but in all likelihood ignorant of my existence.From that time forward he was likely to remain so.Such was my reflection, as I turned to take my departure from the place. There was no longer any reason for my remaining there. The cochero might now come and go, without danger of being accosted by me. His tardiness had lost him the chance of obtaining anonza; and the letter I had been hitherto holding in my hand went crumpled back into my pocket. Its warm words and soft sentiments—contrived with all the skill of which I was capable—should never be read by her for whom they had been indited!So far as the offering of any further overtures on my part, I had done with the daughter of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor; though I knew I had not done with her in my heart, and that it would be long—long—before I should get quit of her there.I turned to go back to my quarters—in secret to resign myself to my humiliation. I did not start instantly. Something whispered me to stay a little longer. Perhaps there might be a second act to the episode I had so unwillingly witnessed?It could hardly be this that induced me to linger. It was evident she did not intend reappearing. Her visit to the balcon had the air of being made by stealth. I noted that once or twice she cast a quick glance over her shoulder—as if watchful eyes were behind her, and she had chosen a chance moment when they were averted.The manoeuvre had been executed with more than ordinary caution. It was easy to see they were loverswithout leave. Ah! too well could I comprehend the clandestine act!Still standing concealed within the shadow of the portal, I watched Francisco deciphering, or rather devouring, the note. How I envied him those moments of bliss! The words traced upon the tiny sheet must be sweet to him, as the sight was bitter to me.His face was directly under the lamplight. I could see it was one that woman might well love, and man be jealous of. No wonder he had won the heart of Don Eusebio’s daughter!He was not long in making himself acquainted with the contents of the epistle. Of course they caused him joy. I could trace it in the pleased expression that made itself manifest in every line of his countenance. Could I have seen my own, I might have looked upon a sad contrast!The reading came to a close. He folded the note, and with care—as though intending it to be tenderly kept. It disappeared under his cloak; the cloak was drawn closer around him; a fond parting look cast up to the place from which he had received the sweet missive; and then, turning along the pavement, he passed smilingly away.I followed him.I can scarce tell why I did so. My first steps were altogether mechanical—without thought or motive.It might have been an instinct—a fascination—such as often attracts the victim to the very danger it should avoid.Prudence—experience, had I consulted it—would both have said to me:“Go the other way. Go, and forget her! Him too—all that has happened. ’Tis not yet too late. You are but upon the edge of the Scylla of passion. You may still shun it. Retire, and save yourself from its Charybdis!”Prudence and experience—what is either—what are both in the balance against beauty? What were they when weighed against the charms of that Mexican maiden?Even the slight I had experienced could not turn the scale in their favour! It only maddened me to know more; and perhaps it was this that carried me along the pavement, on the footsteps of Francisco.If not entertained at first, a design soon shaped itself—a sort of morbid motive. I became curious to ascertain the condition of the man who had supplanted me; or whom I had been myself endeavouring to supplant with such slight success.He had the air of a gentleman, and the bearing of a truemilitario—a type I had more than once met with in the land of Anahuac—so long a prey to the rule of the sabre.There was nothing particularly martial about his habiliments.As he passed lamp after lamp in his progress along the street, I could note their style and character. A pair of dark grey trousers without stripes; a cloak; a glazed hat—all after a fashion worn by the ordinarycommerciantesof the place. I fancied I could perceive a certain shabbiness about them—perhaps not so much that, as a threadbareness—the evidence of long wear: for the materials were of a costly kind. The cloak was of best broadcloth—the fabric of Spain; while the hat was encircled by a bullion band, that, before getting tarnished by the touch of time, must have shone splendidly enough.These observations were not made without motive. I drew from them a series of deductions. One, that could not be avoided: that my rival, instead of being rich, was in the opposite condition of life—perhaps penniless?I was confirmed in this conjecture, as I saw him stop before the door of an humble one-storied dwelling, in a street of corresponding pretensions; thoroughly convinced of it as he lifted the latch with a readiness that betokened it to be his home, and, without speaking to any one, stepped inside.The circumstances were conclusive; he was not one of the “ricos” of the place. It explained the clandestine correspondence, and the caution observed by her who flung down thebilletita.Instead of being solaced by the thought, it only increased my bitterness of spirit. I should have been better pleased to have seen my rival surrounded by splendour. A love unattracted by this must be indeed disinterested—without the possibility of being displaced. No chance to supplant the lover who is loved for himself. I did not harbour a hope.A slight incident had given me the clue to a romantic tale. Mercedes Villa-Señor, daughter of one of the richest men in the place—inhabiting one of its grandest mansions—in secret correspondence with a man wearing a threadbare coat, having his home in one of the lowliest dwellings to be found in the City of the Angels!I was not much surprised at the discovery. I knew it to be one of the “Cosas de Mexico.” But the knowledge did not lessen my chagrin.

That Iwasforestalled, there could be no mistake.

There was no ambiguity about the meaning of the phrase: “God be with you, dear Francis!” The coldest heart could not fail to interpret it—coupled with the act to which it had been an accompaniment.

My heart was on fire. There was jealousy in it; and, more: there was anger.

I believed, or fancied, that I had cause. If ever woman had given me encouragement—by looks and smiles—that woman was Mercedes Villa-Señor.

All done to delude me—perhaps but to gratify the slightest whim of her woman’s vanity? She had shown unmistakeable signs of having noted my glances of admiration. They were too earnest to have been misunderstood. Perhaps she may have been a little flattered by them? But, whether or no, I was confident of having received encouragement.

Once, indeed, a flower had been dropped from thebalcon. It had the air of an accident—with just enough design to make the act difficult of interpretation. With the wish father to the thought, I accepted it as a challenge; and, hastening along the pavement, I stooped, and picked the flower up.

What I then saw was surely an approving smile—one that seemed to say: “in return for your sword-knot.” I thought so at the time; and fancied I could see the tassel, protruding from a plait in the bodice of the lady’s dress—shown for an instant, and then adroitly concealed.

This sweet chapter of incidents occurred upon the occasion of my tenth stroll through the Calle del Obispo. It was the last time I had the chance of seeing Mercedes by twilight. After that came the irksome interval of seclusiveness,—now to be succeeded by a prolonged period of chagrin: for the dropping of thebillet-doux, and the endearing speech, had put an end to my hopes—as effectually as if I had seen Mercedes enfolded in Francisco’s arms.

Along with my chagrin I felt spite. I was under the impression that I had beenplayed with.

Upon whom should I expend it? On the Señorita?

There was no chance. She had retired from the balcony. I might never see her again—there, or elsewhere? Who then? The man who had been before me in her affections?

Should I cross over the street—confront—pick a quarrel with him, and finish it at my sword’s point? An individual whom I had never seen, and who, in all probability, had never set eyes upon me!

Absurd as it may appear—absolutely unjust as it would have been—this was actually my impulse!

It was succeeded by a gentler thought. Francisco’s face was favourable to him. I saw it more distinctly, as he leant forward under the lamp to decipher the contents of the note. It was such a countenance as one could not take offence at, without good cause; and a moment’s reflection convinced me that mine was not sufficient. He was not only innocent of the grief his rivalry had given me, but in all likelihood ignorant of my existence.

From that time forward he was likely to remain so.

Such was my reflection, as I turned to take my departure from the place. There was no longer any reason for my remaining there. The cochero might now come and go, without danger of being accosted by me. His tardiness had lost him the chance of obtaining anonza; and the letter I had been hitherto holding in my hand went crumpled back into my pocket. Its warm words and soft sentiments—contrived with all the skill of which I was capable—should never be read by her for whom they had been indited!

So far as the offering of any further overtures on my part, I had done with the daughter of Don Eusebio Villa-Señor; though I knew I had not done with her in my heart, and that it would be long—long—before I should get quit of her there.

I turned to go back to my quarters—in secret to resign myself to my humiliation. I did not start instantly. Something whispered me to stay a little longer. Perhaps there might be a second act to the episode I had so unwillingly witnessed?

It could hardly be this that induced me to linger. It was evident she did not intend reappearing. Her visit to the balcon had the air of being made by stealth. I noted that once or twice she cast a quick glance over her shoulder—as if watchful eyes were behind her, and she had chosen a chance moment when they were averted.

The manoeuvre had been executed with more than ordinary caution. It was easy to see they were loverswithout leave. Ah! too well could I comprehend the clandestine act!

Still standing concealed within the shadow of the portal, I watched Francisco deciphering, or rather devouring, the note. How I envied him those moments of bliss! The words traced upon the tiny sheet must be sweet to him, as the sight was bitter to me.

His face was directly under the lamplight. I could see it was one that woman might well love, and man be jealous of. No wonder he had won the heart of Don Eusebio’s daughter!

He was not long in making himself acquainted with the contents of the epistle. Of course they caused him joy. I could trace it in the pleased expression that made itself manifest in every line of his countenance. Could I have seen my own, I might have looked upon a sad contrast!

The reading came to a close. He folded the note, and with care—as though intending it to be tenderly kept. It disappeared under his cloak; the cloak was drawn closer around him; a fond parting look cast up to the place from which he had received the sweet missive; and then, turning along the pavement, he passed smilingly away.

I followed him.

I can scarce tell why I did so. My first steps were altogether mechanical—without thought or motive.

It might have been an instinct—a fascination—such as often attracts the victim to the very danger it should avoid.

Prudence—experience, had I consulted it—would both have said to me:

“Go the other way. Go, and forget her! Him too—all that has happened. ’Tis not yet too late. You are but upon the edge of the Scylla of passion. You may still shun it. Retire, and save yourself from its Charybdis!”

Prudence and experience—what is either—what are both in the balance against beauty? What were they when weighed against the charms of that Mexican maiden?

Even the slight I had experienced could not turn the scale in their favour! It only maddened me to know more; and perhaps it was this that carried me along the pavement, on the footsteps of Francisco.

If not entertained at first, a design soon shaped itself—a sort of morbid motive. I became curious to ascertain the condition of the man who had supplanted me; or whom I had been myself endeavouring to supplant with such slight success.

He had the air of a gentleman, and the bearing of a truemilitario—a type I had more than once met with in the land of Anahuac—so long a prey to the rule of the sabre.

There was nothing particularly martial about his habiliments.

As he passed lamp after lamp in his progress along the street, I could note their style and character. A pair of dark grey trousers without stripes; a cloak; a glazed hat—all after a fashion worn by the ordinarycommerciantesof the place. I fancied I could perceive a certain shabbiness about them—perhaps not so much that, as a threadbareness—the evidence of long wear: for the materials were of a costly kind. The cloak was of best broadcloth—the fabric of Spain; while the hat was encircled by a bullion band, that, before getting tarnished by the touch of time, must have shone splendidly enough.

These observations were not made without motive. I drew from them a series of deductions. One, that could not be avoided: that my rival, instead of being rich, was in the opposite condition of life—perhaps penniless?

I was confirmed in this conjecture, as I saw him stop before the door of an humble one-storied dwelling, in a street of corresponding pretensions; thoroughly convinced of it as he lifted the latch with a readiness that betokened it to be his home, and, without speaking to any one, stepped inside.

The circumstances were conclusive; he was not one of the “ricos” of the place. It explained the clandestine correspondence, and the caution observed by her who flung down thebilletita.

Instead of being solaced by the thought, it only increased my bitterness of spirit. I should have been better pleased to have seen my rival surrounded by splendour. A love unattracted by this must be indeed disinterested—without the possibility of being displaced. No chance to supplant the lover who is loved for himself. I did not harbour a hope.

A slight incident had given me the clue to a romantic tale. Mercedes Villa-Señor, daughter of one of the richest men in the place—inhabiting one of its grandest mansions—in secret correspondence with a man wearing a threadbare coat, having his home in one of the lowliest dwellings to be found in the City of the Angels!

I was not much surprised at the discovery. I knew it to be one of the “Cosas de Mexico.” But the knowledge did not lessen my chagrin.

Chapter Nine.Muera El Americano!Like a thief skulking after the unsuspecting pedestrian, on whom he intends to practise his professional skill, so did I follow Francisco.Absorbed in the earnestness of my purpose, I did not observe three genuine thieves, who were skulking after me.I am scarce exact in my nomenclature. They were not thieves, butpicarones-à-pied—footpads.My first acquaintance with these gentry was now to be made.As already said, I was not aware that any one was imitating me, in the somewhat disreputablerôleI was playing.After watching my rival disappear within his doorway, I remained for some seconds in the street—undecided which way to go. I had done with “querido Francisco;” and intended to return to my quarters.But where were they? Engrossed by my espionage I had made no note of the direction, and was now lost in the streets of La Puebla!What was to be done? I stood considering.All of a sudden I felt myself grappled from behind!Both my arms were seized simultaneously, at the same time that agarotawas extended across my throat!They were strong men who had taken hold of me; but not strong enough to retain it.I was then in the very vigour of my manhood; and, though it may seem vanity to say so, it was a vigour not easily overcome.With a quick wrench, I threw off the two flankers; and turning suddenly—so that thegarotawas diverted from its purpose—I got a blow at the ruffian who held it that sent him face foremost upon the pavement.Before any of the three could renew their attempt, I had my revolver in hand—ready to deal death to the first who re-assailed me.The footpads stood aghast. They had not expected such a determined resistance; and, if left to themselves, in all probability, I should have seen no more of them that night.If left to themselves, I could have dealt with them conveniently enough. In truth, I could have taken the lives of all three, as they stood in their speechless bewilderment.I held in my hand a Colt’s six-shooter, Number 2; another in my belt; twelve shots in all—sure as the best percussion caps and careful loading could make them. A fourth of the shots would have sufficed: for I had no thought of taking uncertain aim.Despite the cause given me for excitement, I never felt cooler in my life—that is for a combat. For an hour before, my nerves had been undergoing a strain, that served only to strengthen them.I had been in want of something upon which to pour out my gathering wrath; and here was the thing itself. God, or the devil, seemed to have sent the three thieves as a safety-valve to my swollen passion—a sort of target on which to expend it!Jesting apart, I thought so at the time; and so sure was I of being able to immolate the trio at my leisure, that I only hesitated as to which of them I should shoot down first!You may be incredulous. I can assure you that the scene I am describing is no mere romance, but the transcript of a real occurrence. So also are the thoughts associated with it.I stood eyeing my assailants, undecided about the selection.I had my finger on the trigger; but, before pressing it, a quick reflection came into my mind that restrained me from shooting.It was still early—not quite ten o’clock—and the pavement was alive with passengers. I had passed several on entering the little street; and, from the place where I stood, I could see a dozen dark forms flitting about, or loitering by the doors of the houses.They were allleperosof the low quarter.The report of my pistol would bring a crowd of them around me; and, although I might disembarrass myself of the footpads, I should be in as much, or more, danger from thepatriotas!I was quite sensible of the perilous situation in which I had placed myself by my imprudent promenade.As the robbers appeared to have given up their design upon my purse, and were making their best speed to get out of reach of my pistol, I thought the wisest way would be to let them go off.With this design I was about to content myself—only staying to pick up my cloak, that in the struggle had fallen from my shoulders.Having recovered it, I commenced taking my departure from the place.I had not gone six paces, when I became half convinced that I had made a mistake, and that it would have been better to have killed the three thieves. After doing so, I might have found time to steal off unobserved.Allowing them to escape, I had given them the opportunity to return in greater strength, and under a different pretence from that of their former profession.A cry that all three raised as they ran down the street, was answered by a score of other voices; and, before I had time to make out its meaning, I was surrounded by a circle of faces, scowling upon me with an expression of unmistakeable hostility.Were they all robbers—associates of the three who had assaulted me?Had I chanced into one of those streets entirely abandoned to the thieving fraternity—such as may be found in European cities—where the guardians of the night do not dare to shew their faces?This was my first impression, as I noted the angry looks and hostile attitude of those who came clustering around me.It became quickly changed, as I listened to the phrase, fiercely vociferated in my ears:“Dios y Libertad! Muera el Americano!”The discomfited footpads had returned upon a new tack. They had seen my uniform, as it became uncloaked in the struggle; and, under a pretence of patriotism, were now about to take satisfaction for their discomfiture and disappointment.By good fortune I was standing upon a spot where there was a tolerable light—thrown upon the street by a couple of lamps suspended near.Had it been darker, I might have been set upon at once, and cut down, before I could distinguish my antagonists. But the light benefited me in a different way. It exposed to my new assailants a brace of Colt’s revolvers—one held in hand and ready to be discharged; the other ready to be drawn.The knife was their weapon. I could see a dozen blades bared simultaneously around me; but to get to such close quarters would cost some of them their lives.They had the sharpness to perceive it; and halting at several paces distance—formed a sort of irregular ring around me.It was not a complete circle, but only the half: for I had taken my stand against the front of a house, close to its doorway.It was a lucky thought, or instinct: since it prevented my being assailed from the rear.“What do you want?” I asked, addressing my antagonists in their own tongue—which by good fortune I spoke with sufficient purity.“Your life!” was the laconic reply, spoken by a man of sinister aspect, “your life,filibustero! And we mean to have it. So you may as well put up your pistol. If not, we’ll take it from you. Yield, Yankee, if you don’t want to be killed on the spot!”“You may kill me,” I responded, looking the ruffian full in the face, “but not till after I’ve killed you, worthy sir. You hear me, cavallero! The first that stirs a step towards me, will go down in his tracks. It will be yourself—if you have the courage to come first.”I cannot describe how I felt at that queer crisis. I only remember that I was as cool, as if rehearsing the scene for amusement—instead of being engaged in a real and true tragedy that must speedily terminate in death!My coolness, perhaps, sprang from despair, or an instinct that nought else could avail me.My words, with the gestures that accompanied them, were not without effect. The tall man, who appeared to lead the party, saw that I had selected him for my first shot, and cowered back into the thick of the crowd.But among his associates there were some of more courage, or greater determination; and the cry, “Muera el Americano!” once more shouted on all sides, gave a fresh stimulus to the passions of thepatriotas.Besides, the crowd was constantly growing greater, through fresh arrivals in the street. I could see that the six-shooter would not much longer keep my assailants at a distance.There appeared not the slightest chance of escape. A death, certain as cruel—sudden, terrible to contemplate—stared me in the face. I saw no way of avoiding it. I had no thought of there being a possibility to do so—no thought of anything, save selling my life as dearly as I could.Before falling, I should make a hecatomb of my cowardly assassins.I saw no pistols or other firearms in their hands—nothing but knives andmachetés. They could only reach me from the front; and, before they could close upon me, I felt certain of being able to discharge every chamber of my two revolvers. At least half a dozen of my enemies were doomed to die before me.I was in a splendid position for defence. The house against which I had been brought to bay was built ofadobés, with walls full three feet thick. The door was indented to a depth of at least two. I stood with my back against it, the jambs on both sides protecting me. My position was that of the badger in the barrel attacked by terriers.How long I might have been permitted to hold it is a question I will not undertake to answer. No doubt it would have depended upon the courage of my assailants, and the stimulus supplied by that patriotic cry still shouted out, “Muera el Americano!”But none of those who were shouting had reached that climax of recklessness, to rush upon the certain death which I stood ready to deal out.They obstructed the doorway in front, and in a close threatening phalanx—like a pack of angry hounds holding a stag at bay, the boldest fearing to spring forward.Despite the knowledge that it was a terrible tragedy, I could not help fancying it a farce: so long and carefully did my assailants keep at arm’s length.Still more like a burlesque might it have appeared to a spectator, as I fell upon the broad of my back—kicking up my heels upon the door-stoup!It was neither shot, nor stab, that had caused this sudden change in my attitude; but simply the opening of the door, against which I had been supporting myself.Some one inside had drawn the bolt, and, by doing so, removed the support from behind me!

Like a thief skulking after the unsuspecting pedestrian, on whom he intends to practise his professional skill, so did I follow Francisco.

Absorbed in the earnestness of my purpose, I did not observe three genuine thieves, who were skulking after me.

I am scarce exact in my nomenclature. They were not thieves, butpicarones-à-pied—footpads.

My first acquaintance with these gentry was now to be made.

As already said, I was not aware that any one was imitating me, in the somewhat disreputablerôleI was playing.

After watching my rival disappear within his doorway, I remained for some seconds in the street—undecided which way to go. I had done with “querido Francisco;” and intended to return to my quarters.

But where were they? Engrossed by my espionage I had made no note of the direction, and was now lost in the streets of La Puebla!

What was to be done? I stood considering.

All of a sudden I felt myself grappled from behind!

Both my arms were seized simultaneously, at the same time that agarotawas extended across my throat!

They were strong men who had taken hold of me; but not strong enough to retain it.

I was then in the very vigour of my manhood; and, though it may seem vanity to say so, it was a vigour not easily overcome.

With a quick wrench, I threw off the two flankers; and turning suddenly—so that thegarotawas diverted from its purpose—I got a blow at the ruffian who held it that sent him face foremost upon the pavement.

Before any of the three could renew their attempt, I had my revolver in hand—ready to deal death to the first who re-assailed me.

The footpads stood aghast. They had not expected such a determined resistance; and, if left to themselves, in all probability, I should have seen no more of them that night.

If left to themselves, I could have dealt with them conveniently enough. In truth, I could have taken the lives of all three, as they stood in their speechless bewilderment.

I held in my hand a Colt’s six-shooter, Number 2; another in my belt; twelve shots in all—sure as the best percussion caps and careful loading could make them. A fourth of the shots would have sufficed: for I had no thought of taking uncertain aim.

Despite the cause given me for excitement, I never felt cooler in my life—that is for a combat. For an hour before, my nerves had been undergoing a strain, that served only to strengthen them.

I had been in want of something upon which to pour out my gathering wrath; and here was the thing itself. God, or the devil, seemed to have sent the three thieves as a safety-valve to my swollen passion—a sort of target on which to expend it!

Jesting apart, I thought so at the time; and so sure was I of being able to immolate the trio at my leisure, that I only hesitated as to which of them I should shoot down first!

You may be incredulous. I can assure you that the scene I am describing is no mere romance, but the transcript of a real occurrence. So also are the thoughts associated with it.

I stood eyeing my assailants, undecided about the selection.

I had my finger on the trigger; but, before pressing it, a quick reflection came into my mind that restrained me from shooting.

It was still early—not quite ten o’clock—and the pavement was alive with passengers. I had passed several on entering the little street; and, from the place where I stood, I could see a dozen dark forms flitting about, or loitering by the doors of the houses.

They were allleperosof the low quarter.

The report of my pistol would bring a crowd of them around me; and, although I might disembarrass myself of the footpads, I should be in as much, or more, danger from thepatriotas!

I was quite sensible of the perilous situation in which I had placed myself by my imprudent promenade.

As the robbers appeared to have given up their design upon my purse, and were making their best speed to get out of reach of my pistol, I thought the wisest way would be to let them go off.

With this design I was about to content myself—only staying to pick up my cloak, that in the struggle had fallen from my shoulders.

Having recovered it, I commenced taking my departure from the place.

I had not gone six paces, when I became half convinced that I had made a mistake, and that it would have been better to have killed the three thieves. After doing so, I might have found time to steal off unobserved.

Allowing them to escape, I had given them the opportunity to return in greater strength, and under a different pretence from that of their former profession.

A cry that all three raised as they ran down the street, was answered by a score of other voices; and, before I had time to make out its meaning, I was surrounded by a circle of faces, scowling upon me with an expression of unmistakeable hostility.

Were they all robbers—associates of the three who had assaulted me?

Had I chanced into one of those streets entirely abandoned to the thieving fraternity—such as may be found in European cities—where the guardians of the night do not dare to shew their faces?

This was my first impression, as I noted the angry looks and hostile attitude of those who came clustering around me.

It became quickly changed, as I listened to the phrase, fiercely vociferated in my ears:

“Dios y Libertad! Muera el Americano!”

The discomfited footpads had returned upon a new tack. They had seen my uniform, as it became uncloaked in the struggle; and, under a pretence of patriotism, were now about to take satisfaction for their discomfiture and disappointment.

By good fortune I was standing upon a spot where there was a tolerable light—thrown upon the street by a couple of lamps suspended near.

Had it been darker, I might have been set upon at once, and cut down, before I could distinguish my antagonists. But the light benefited me in a different way. It exposed to my new assailants a brace of Colt’s revolvers—one held in hand and ready to be discharged; the other ready to be drawn.

The knife was their weapon. I could see a dozen blades bared simultaneously around me; but to get to such close quarters would cost some of them their lives.

They had the sharpness to perceive it; and halting at several paces distance—formed a sort of irregular ring around me.

It was not a complete circle, but only the half: for I had taken my stand against the front of a house, close to its doorway.

It was a lucky thought, or instinct: since it prevented my being assailed from the rear.

“What do you want?” I asked, addressing my antagonists in their own tongue—which by good fortune I spoke with sufficient purity.

“Your life!” was the laconic reply, spoken by a man of sinister aspect, “your life,filibustero! And we mean to have it. So you may as well put up your pistol. If not, we’ll take it from you. Yield, Yankee, if you don’t want to be killed on the spot!”

“You may kill me,” I responded, looking the ruffian full in the face, “but not till after I’ve killed you, worthy sir. You hear me, cavallero! The first that stirs a step towards me, will go down in his tracks. It will be yourself—if you have the courage to come first.”

I cannot describe how I felt at that queer crisis. I only remember that I was as cool, as if rehearsing the scene for amusement—instead of being engaged in a real and true tragedy that must speedily terminate in death!

My coolness, perhaps, sprang from despair, or an instinct that nought else could avail me.

My words, with the gestures that accompanied them, were not without effect. The tall man, who appeared to lead the party, saw that I had selected him for my first shot, and cowered back into the thick of the crowd.

But among his associates there were some of more courage, or greater determination; and the cry, “Muera el Americano!” once more shouted on all sides, gave a fresh stimulus to the passions of thepatriotas.

Besides, the crowd was constantly growing greater, through fresh arrivals in the street. I could see that the six-shooter would not much longer keep my assailants at a distance.

There appeared not the slightest chance of escape. A death, certain as cruel—sudden, terrible to contemplate—stared me in the face. I saw no way of avoiding it. I had no thought of there being a possibility to do so—no thought of anything, save selling my life as dearly as I could.

Before falling, I should make a hecatomb of my cowardly assassins.

I saw no pistols or other firearms in their hands—nothing but knives andmachetés. They could only reach me from the front; and, before they could close upon me, I felt certain of being able to discharge every chamber of my two revolvers. At least half a dozen of my enemies were doomed to die before me.

I was in a splendid position for defence. The house against which I had been brought to bay was built ofadobés, with walls full three feet thick. The door was indented to a depth of at least two. I stood with my back against it, the jambs on both sides protecting me. My position was that of the badger in the barrel attacked by terriers.

How long I might have been permitted to hold it is a question I will not undertake to answer. No doubt it would have depended upon the courage of my assailants, and the stimulus supplied by that patriotic cry still shouted out, “Muera el Americano!”

But none of those who were shouting had reached that climax of recklessness, to rush upon the certain death which I stood ready to deal out.

They obstructed the doorway in front, and in a close threatening phalanx—like a pack of angry hounds holding a stag at bay, the boldest fearing to spring forward.

Despite the knowledge that it was a terrible tragedy, I could not help fancying it a farce: so long and carefully did my assailants keep at arm’s length.

Still more like a burlesque might it have appeared to a spectator, as I fell upon the broad of my back—kicking up my heels upon the door-stoup!

It was neither shot, nor stab, that had caused this sudden change in my attitude; but simply the opening of the door, against which I had been supporting myself.

Some one inside had drawn the bolt, and, by doing so, removed the support from behind me!

Chapter Ten.The Street of the Sparrows.As I tottered upon my back, I felt my head and shoulders in contact with the legs of a man. They broke the fall, that might otherwise have stunned me: for the floor was of stone flags.I lost no time in disentangling myself; but, before I could regain my feet, the man bounded over my body, and stood upon the threshold.As he passed between me and the light outside, I could see something shining by his side. It was a sword blade. I could see that the hilt was in his hand.My first impression was that he had sprung into the doorway to intercept my retreat. Of course I classed him among my enemies. How could I expect to find friend, or protector, in such a place?It could make but little difference. I believed that retreat by the front door was out of the question. Double barring it would make things no worse.Just then I bethought me of a chance of escape, not before possible. Was there a back door? Or a stair up to theazotea?My reflections were quick as thought itself; but while making them they lost part of their importance. The man was standing with his back towards me and his face to the crowd upon the street. Their cries had followed me in; and no doubt so would some of themselves, had they been left to their predilections.But they were not, as I now perceived. He who had opened his door to admit, perhaps, the most unwelcome guest who had ever entered it, seemed not the less determined upon asserting the sacred rights of hospitality.As he placed himself between the posts, I saw the glint of steel shooting out in front—while he commanded the people to keep back.The command delivered in a loud authoritative voice, backed by a long toledo, whose blade glittered deathlike under the pale glimmer of the lamp, had the effect of awing the outsiders into a momentary silence. There was an interval in which I heard neither shout nor reply.He himself broke the stillness, that succeeded his first salutation.“Leperos!” he cried, in the tone of one who feels himself speaking to inferiors; “What is this disturbance? What are you after?”“An enemy! A Yankee!”“Carrambo! I suppose they are synonymous terms. To all appearance you are right,” continued he, catching sight of my uniform, as he turned half round in the doorway. “But what’s the use?” he continued. “What advantage can our country derive from killing a poor devil like this?”I felt half indignant at the speech. I recognised in the speaker the handsome youth who had been before me with Mercedes Villa-Señor!A bitter chance that should have madehimmy protector!“Let them come on!” I cried, driven to desperation at the thought; “I need no protection from you, sir—thanks all the same! I hold the lives of at least twelve of these gentlemen in my hands. After that, they shall be welcome to mine. Stand aside, and see how I shall scatter the cowardly rabble. Aside, sir!”If I was not mad, my protector must have thought me so.“Carrambo, señor!” he responded, without showing himself in the least chafed by my ungrateful answer. “You are perhaps not aware of the danger you are in. If I but say the word, you are a dead man.”“You’ll say it,capitano!” shouted one on the outside. “Why not? The Yankee has insulted you. Let’s punish him, if it be only for that!”“Muera! Muera el Americano!”My assailants, freshly excited by these cries, came surging towards the door.“Al atras, leperos!” shouted my protector. “The first that sets foot over my threshold—humble as it is—I shall spit upon my sword, like a piece oftasajo. You are very brave here in the Callecito de los Pajaros! I doubt whether there’s one among you who has met the enemy—either at Vera Cruz, or Cerro Gordo!”“You’re mistaken there, capitan Moreno!” answered a tall dark man who stood out in front of his fellows, and whom I recognised as the chief of the trio who had first attacked me, “Here’s one who has been in both the battles you are pleased to speak of; and who has come out of them, not like your noble self—a prisoner upon parole!”“Captain Carrasco, if I mistake not?” sneeringly retorted my protector. “I can believe that of you. Not likely to be a prisoner of any kind. No doubt you took care to get well out of the way before the time when prisoners were being taken?”“Carajo!” screamed the swarthy disputant, his face turning livid with rage. “You say that? You have heard it,camarados? Capitan Moreno sets himself up, not only as our judge, but the protector of our accursed invaders! And we must submit to his sublime dictation—we the citizens of Puebla!”“No—no, we won’t stand it.Muera el Americano! The Yankee must be delivered up!”“You must take him, then,” coolly responded Moreno, “at the point of my sword.”“And at the muzzle of my pistol,” I added, springing to the side of my generous host—determined to share with him the defence of his doorway.This unexpected resistance caused a change in the attitude of Carrasco and his cowardly associates. Though they hailed it with a vengeful shout, it was plain that their impetuosity had received a check; and, instead of advancing to the attack, one and all stood cowed-like and silent.They seemed to know the temper of my protector as well as his sword; and this no doubt for the time restrained them.But the true secret of their backwardness was to be sought for in the six-shooters, one of which I now held in each hand. The Mexicans had just become acquainted with the character of this splendid weapon—first used in battle in that same campaign—and its destructive powers, by report exaggerated tenfold, inspired them, as it had done the Prairie Indians, with a fear almost supernatural.Perhaps to this sentiment was I indebted for my salvation. Brave as my protector was, and skilled as he might be with his toledo—quick and sure as I could have delivered my twelve shots—what would all have availed against a mob of infuriated men, already a hundred strong, and every moment augmenting? One, perhaps both, of us must have fallen before their fury.It may seem strange to talk of sentiment, in such a crisis as that in which I was placed. You will be incredulous of its existence. And yet, by my honour, itdidexist. I felt it, as certainly as I ever did in my life.I need scarcely say what the sentiment was. It could only be that of profound gratitude—first to Francisco Moreno; and then to God for making such a noble man!The thought that followed was but a consequence of this reflection. It was to save him who was risking his life to save me.I was about to appeal to him to stand aside, and leave me to my fate. What good would it do for both to die? for I verily believed that death was at hand.My purpose was not carried out; though its frustration came not from a craven fear. Very different was the cause that stayed my tongue.As we stood silent—both defenders and those threatening to attack—a sound was borne upon the breeze, which caused the silence to be prolonged.There could be no doubt as to the signification of this sound. Any one who has ever witnessed the spectacle of a troop of horse passing along a paved street, will recognise the noises that accompany it:—the continuous tramping of hoofs, the tinkling of curbs, and the occasional clank of a scabbard, as it strikes against spur or stirrup.Such noises I recognised, as did every individual in the “Street of the Sparrows.”“La guardia!La patrulla Americana!” (The guard! The American patrol!) was the muttered exclamations that came from the crowd.My heart bounded with joy, and I was about to spring forth—thinking my assailants would now make way for me.But no. They stood firm and close as a wall, maintaining their semicircle around the doorway.Though evidently resolved on keeping their ground they made no noise—with their knives andmachetésonly demonstrating in silence!I saw their design. The patrol was passing along one of the principal streets. They knew that the least disturbance would attract it into the Callecito.If silent, but for ten seconds, they would be safe to renew the attack; and I should then be lost—surely sacrificed!What was to be done? Fire into their midst, commence thefracas, and, by so doing, summon the patrol to my rescue? Perhaps it would arrive in time to be too late—to take up my mangled corpse, and carry it to the cuartel?I hesitated to tempt the attack.Was there no other way, by which I could give warning to my countrymen?O God! the hoof-trampling seemed gradually growing less distinct! No sound of bit, or spur, stirrup, or steel scabbard. They had passed the end of the Callecito. Ten seconds more, and they would be beyond hearing!Ha! a happy thought! That night—I now remembered it—my own corps—the Rifle Rangers—constituted the street patrol. My first Serjeant would be at its head. Between him and me had long been established a code of signals—independent of those set for the bugler. By the favour of fortune, I had upon my person the means of making them—a common dog-call, that more than once, during the campaign, had stood me in good stead.In another instant its shrill echoes resounded through the street, and were heard half-way across the City of the Angels.If the devil himself had directed the signal, it could not have more effectually paralysed our opponents. They stood speechless—astounded!Only for a short while did they thus remain. Then, as if some wild panic had suddenly seized upon them, both footpads and citizens ran scattering away!In the place they had occupied I could see two score of horses, with the same number of men upon their backs—whose dark green uniforms were joyfully recognised.With a shout I rushed forth to receive them!After an interlude of confused congratulations I turned to give thanks—far more than thanks—to Francisco Moreno.My gratitude was doomed to disappointment. He who so well deserved it was no longer to be seen.The door, through which I had so fortunately fallen, was closed upon my generous protector!

As I tottered upon my back, I felt my head and shoulders in contact with the legs of a man. They broke the fall, that might otherwise have stunned me: for the floor was of stone flags.

I lost no time in disentangling myself; but, before I could regain my feet, the man bounded over my body, and stood upon the threshold.

As he passed between me and the light outside, I could see something shining by his side. It was a sword blade. I could see that the hilt was in his hand.

My first impression was that he had sprung into the doorway to intercept my retreat. Of course I classed him among my enemies. How could I expect to find friend, or protector, in such a place?

It could make but little difference. I believed that retreat by the front door was out of the question. Double barring it would make things no worse.

Just then I bethought me of a chance of escape, not before possible. Was there a back door? Or a stair up to theazotea?

My reflections were quick as thought itself; but while making them they lost part of their importance. The man was standing with his back towards me and his face to the crowd upon the street. Their cries had followed me in; and no doubt so would some of themselves, had they been left to their predilections.

But they were not, as I now perceived. He who had opened his door to admit, perhaps, the most unwelcome guest who had ever entered it, seemed not the less determined upon asserting the sacred rights of hospitality.

As he placed himself between the posts, I saw the glint of steel shooting out in front—while he commanded the people to keep back.

The command delivered in a loud authoritative voice, backed by a long toledo, whose blade glittered deathlike under the pale glimmer of the lamp, had the effect of awing the outsiders into a momentary silence. There was an interval in which I heard neither shout nor reply.

He himself broke the stillness, that succeeded his first salutation.

“Leperos!” he cried, in the tone of one who feels himself speaking to inferiors; “What is this disturbance? What are you after?”

“An enemy! A Yankee!”

“Carrambo! I suppose they are synonymous terms. To all appearance you are right,” continued he, catching sight of my uniform, as he turned half round in the doorway. “But what’s the use?” he continued. “What advantage can our country derive from killing a poor devil like this?”

I felt half indignant at the speech. I recognised in the speaker the handsome youth who had been before me with Mercedes Villa-Señor!

A bitter chance that should have madehimmy protector!

“Let them come on!” I cried, driven to desperation at the thought; “I need no protection from you, sir—thanks all the same! I hold the lives of at least twelve of these gentlemen in my hands. After that, they shall be welcome to mine. Stand aside, and see how I shall scatter the cowardly rabble. Aside, sir!”

If I was not mad, my protector must have thought me so.

“Carrambo, señor!” he responded, without showing himself in the least chafed by my ungrateful answer. “You are perhaps not aware of the danger you are in. If I but say the word, you are a dead man.”

“You’ll say it,capitano!” shouted one on the outside. “Why not? The Yankee has insulted you. Let’s punish him, if it be only for that!”

“Muera! Muera el Americano!”

My assailants, freshly excited by these cries, came surging towards the door.

“Al atras, leperos!” shouted my protector. “The first that sets foot over my threshold—humble as it is—I shall spit upon my sword, like a piece oftasajo. You are very brave here in the Callecito de los Pajaros! I doubt whether there’s one among you who has met the enemy—either at Vera Cruz, or Cerro Gordo!”

“You’re mistaken there, capitan Moreno!” answered a tall dark man who stood out in front of his fellows, and whom I recognised as the chief of the trio who had first attacked me, “Here’s one who has been in both the battles you are pleased to speak of; and who has come out of them, not like your noble self—a prisoner upon parole!”

“Captain Carrasco, if I mistake not?” sneeringly retorted my protector. “I can believe that of you. Not likely to be a prisoner of any kind. No doubt you took care to get well out of the way before the time when prisoners were being taken?”

“Carajo!” screamed the swarthy disputant, his face turning livid with rage. “You say that? You have heard it,camarados? Capitan Moreno sets himself up, not only as our judge, but the protector of our accursed invaders! And we must submit to his sublime dictation—we the citizens of Puebla!”

“No—no, we won’t stand it.Muera el Americano! The Yankee must be delivered up!”

“You must take him, then,” coolly responded Moreno, “at the point of my sword.”

“And at the muzzle of my pistol,” I added, springing to the side of my generous host—determined to share with him the defence of his doorway.

This unexpected resistance caused a change in the attitude of Carrasco and his cowardly associates. Though they hailed it with a vengeful shout, it was plain that their impetuosity had received a check; and, instead of advancing to the attack, one and all stood cowed-like and silent.

They seemed to know the temper of my protector as well as his sword; and this no doubt for the time restrained them.

But the true secret of their backwardness was to be sought for in the six-shooters, one of which I now held in each hand. The Mexicans had just become acquainted with the character of this splendid weapon—first used in battle in that same campaign—and its destructive powers, by report exaggerated tenfold, inspired them, as it had done the Prairie Indians, with a fear almost supernatural.

Perhaps to this sentiment was I indebted for my salvation. Brave as my protector was, and skilled as he might be with his toledo—quick and sure as I could have delivered my twelve shots—what would all have availed against a mob of infuriated men, already a hundred strong, and every moment augmenting? One, perhaps both, of us must have fallen before their fury.

It may seem strange to talk of sentiment, in such a crisis as that in which I was placed. You will be incredulous of its existence. And yet, by my honour, itdidexist. I felt it, as certainly as I ever did in my life.

I need scarcely say what the sentiment was. It could only be that of profound gratitude—first to Francisco Moreno; and then to God for making such a noble man!

The thought that followed was but a consequence of this reflection. It was to save him who was risking his life to save me.

I was about to appeal to him to stand aside, and leave me to my fate. What good would it do for both to die? for I verily believed that death was at hand.

My purpose was not carried out; though its frustration came not from a craven fear. Very different was the cause that stayed my tongue.

As we stood silent—both defenders and those threatening to attack—a sound was borne upon the breeze, which caused the silence to be prolonged.

There could be no doubt as to the signification of this sound. Any one who has ever witnessed the spectacle of a troop of horse passing along a paved street, will recognise the noises that accompany it:—the continuous tramping of hoofs, the tinkling of curbs, and the occasional clank of a scabbard, as it strikes against spur or stirrup.

Such noises I recognised, as did every individual in the “Street of the Sparrows.”

“La guardia!La patrulla Americana!” (The guard! The American patrol!) was the muttered exclamations that came from the crowd.

My heart bounded with joy, and I was about to spring forth—thinking my assailants would now make way for me.

But no. They stood firm and close as a wall, maintaining their semicircle around the doorway.

Though evidently resolved on keeping their ground they made no noise—with their knives andmachetésonly demonstrating in silence!

I saw their design. The patrol was passing along one of the principal streets. They knew that the least disturbance would attract it into the Callecito.

If silent, but for ten seconds, they would be safe to renew the attack; and I should then be lost—surely sacrificed!

What was to be done? Fire into their midst, commence thefracas, and, by so doing, summon the patrol to my rescue? Perhaps it would arrive in time to be too late—to take up my mangled corpse, and carry it to the cuartel?

I hesitated to tempt the attack.

Was there no other way, by which I could give warning to my countrymen?

O God! the hoof-trampling seemed gradually growing less distinct! No sound of bit, or spur, stirrup, or steel scabbard. They had passed the end of the Callecito. Ten seconds more, and they would be beyond hearing!

Ha! a happy thought! That night—I now remembered it—my own corps—the Rifle Rangers—constituted the street patrol. My first Serjeant would be at its head. Between him and me had long been established a code of signals—independent of those set for the bugler. By the favour of fortune, I had upon my person the means of making them—a common dog-call, that more than once, during the campaign, had stood me in good stead.

In another instant its shrill echoes resounded through the street, and were heard half-way across the City of the Angels.

If the devil himself had directed the signal, it could not have more effectually paralysed our opponents. They stood speechless—astounded!

Only for a short while did they thus remain. Then, as if some wild panic had suddenly seized upon them, both footpads and citizens ran scattering away!

In the place they had occupied I could see two score of horses, with the same number of men upon their backs—whose dark green uniforms were joyfully recognised.

With a shout I rushed forth to receive them!

After an interlude of confused congratulations I turned to give thanks—far more than thanks—to Francisco Moreno.

My gratitude was doomed to disappointment. He who so well deserved it was no longer to be seen.

The door, through which I had so fortunately fallen, was closed upon my generous protector!

Chapter Eleven.The Red Hats.For more than a month after the incidents related, were we of the invading army compelled to endure a semi-seclusion, withincuartelsneither very clean nor comfortable.We should have far preferred thebillet; and there were scores of grand “casas” whose owners richly deserved it.But the thing was out of the question. To have scattered our small force would have been to court the rising we had reason to apprehend.Our division-general had the good sense to perceive this; and, against the grumbling of both officers and men, insisted upon his injunction—to stay within doors—being rigorously observed.To me the situation was irksome in the extreme. It gave too much leisure to brood over my bitterness. An active life might have offered some chance of distraction; but inside a barrack—where one grows ennuyed with always seeing the same faces, and tired of the everlasting small talk—even the ordinary routine is sufficiently afflicting. What was it in the heart of a hostile city? What to me, suffering from the humiliation I had experienced?Only for the sake of excitement did I desire to go out on the streets. The Calle del Obispo had lost its attractions for me; or, rather should I say, they were lost to me. As for visiting the Callecito de los Pajaros, I am sorry to record: that my woundedamour proprewas more powerful than my sense of gratitude. I felt more inclined to shun, than seek it.A month, and there came a change. The streets of La Puebla were once more free to us—by night as by day.It was caused by the arrival of three or four fresh brigades of the American army: now concentrating to advance upon the capital.The tables were turned, and the hostile Poblanos were reduced—if not to a state of friendship, at least to one of fear.They had cause. Along with our troops came a regiment of “Texas Rangers”—the dread of all modern Mexicans—with scores of nondescript camp-followers, by our enemies equally to be dreaded.Still more to be feared, and shunned, by the citizens of Puebla, was a band ofregular robbers, whom General Scott—for some sapient purpose of his own—had incorporated with the American army, under the title of the “Spy Company”—the name taken from the service they were intended to perform.They were the band of captain—usually styled “colonel”—Dominguez; an ex-officer of Santa Anna’s army, who for years had sustained himself in the mountains around Peroté, and themal paisof El Piñol—a terror to all travellers not rich enough to command a strong escort of Government “dragones.”They were true highwaymen—salteadores del camino grande—each mounted on his own horse, and armed with carbine, pistol, lance, or long sword!They were dressed in various fashions; but generally in the picturesquerancherocostume ofjaqueta, calzoneros, and broad-brimmed high-crowned hats; booted, spurred, sashed, laced, and tassel led.On the shoulders of some might be seen theserapé; while not a few were draped with the magnificentmanga.On joining us they were a hundred and twenty strong, with recognised officers—a captain and a couple of “tenientes,” with the usual number of “sarjentes” and “cabos.”So close was their resemblance to theguerillerosof the enemy, that, to prevent our men from shooting them by mistake, they had been compelled to adopt a distinguishing badge.It consisted of a strip of scarlet stuff, worn, bandlike, round their sombreros—with the loose ends dangling down to the shoulder.The symbol naturally led to a name. They were known to our soldiers as the “Red Hats”—the phrase not unfrequently coupled with a rude adjunctive.Outlawed in their own land—now associated with its invaders—it is scarce necessary to say that the Red Hats were an object of terror wherever they had a chance of showing their not very cheerful faces.And in no place more than La Puebla; that had given birth to at least one-half of them, and to all of them, at one time or another, shelter within its gaols!Now returned to it under theaegisof the American eagle, there was a fine opportunity for the Red Hats to settle old scores withalcaldes, reyidores, and the like; and they were not backward in availing themselves of it.The consequence was, that the Poblanos soon laid aside their bullying tone; and were only too well pleased when allowed to pass tranquilly through their own streets.I was one among many other officers of the American army who felt disgust at this association withsalteadores—solely an idea of our superannuated commander-in-chief, since celebrated as the “hero” of Bull’s Run.Endowed with a wonderful conceit in his “strategical combinations,” the employment of the Spy company was one in which he felt no little pride; while we regarded it as a positive disgrace.The act might have been allowable under the pressure of a severe necessity. But none such existed. In the anarchical land invaded by us we could have found spies enough—without appealing to its cut-throats.It is not to be denied that Dominguez and his robbers did us good service. Faithfulness to our cause was a necessity of their existence. Outlawed before—now doubly estranged by their treason—they were hated by their countrymen with an intensity beyond bounds; and, wherever caught straying beyond our lines, death was their certain doom.In several skirmishes, into which they were drawn with their own guerilleros, they fought like very tigers—well knowing that, if taken, they had no mercy to expect.On their side thelex talioniswas practised with a loose hand; so loose that it soon became necessary to restrain it; and they were no longer allowed to go scouting on their own account. Whenever their services were required, they had to be performed under the eye of an officer of mounted rifles or dragoons, with a troop of these acting in concert.But the terror originally inspired by them continued till the end of the campaign; and the sight of a Red Hat coming along the street was sufficient to terrify the women, and send the children screaming within doors.In no place were our red-handed allies held in greater detestation than in the city of La Puebla—partly from the striking resemblance borne to them by a large number of its population, and an antipathy on this account; partly from old hostilities; and, perhaps, not a little from the fact of our having there, more than elsewhere, permitted them to carry out their proclivities.There was a sort of tacit consent to their swaggering among the Poblanos; as a punishment to the latter for the trouble, whichtheirswaggering had caused to us.It was only for a time, however; and, when things appeared to be going too far, the good old Anglo-American morality—inculcated by thetownship school—resumed its sway over the minds of our soldiers; and the Red Hats were coerced into better behaviour.

For more than a month after the incidents related, were we of the invading army compelled to endure a semi-seclusion, withincuartelsneither very clean nor comfortable.

We should have far preferred thebillet; and there were scores of grand “casas” whose owners richly deserved it.

But the thing was out of the question. To have scattered our small force would have been to court the rising we had reason to apprehend.

Our division-general had the good sense to perceive this; and, against the grumbling of both officers and men, insisted upon his injunction—to stay within doors—being rigorously observed.

To me the situation was irksome in the extreme. It gave too much leisure to brood over my bitterness. An active life might have offered some chance of distraction; but inside a barrack—where one grows ennuyed with always seeing the same faces, and tired of the everlasting small talk—even the ordinary routine is sufficiently afflicting. What was it in the heart of a hostile city? What to me, suffering from the humiliation I had experienced?

Only for the sake of excitement did I desire to go out on the streets. The Calle del Obispo had lost its attractions for me; or, rather should I say, they were lost to me. As for visiting the Callecito de los Pajaros, I am sorry to record: that my woundedamour proprewas more powerful than my sense of gratitude. I felt more inclined to shun, than seek it.

A month, and there came a change. The streets of La Puebla were once more free to us—by night as by day.

It was caused by the arrival of three or four fresh brigades of the American army: now concentrating to advance upon the capital.

The tables were turned, and the hostile Poblanos were reduced—if not to a state of friendship, at least to one of fear.

They had cause. Along with our troops came a regiment of “Texas Rangers”—the dread of all modern Mexicans—with scores of nondescript camp-followers, by our enemies equally to be dreaded.

Still more to be feared, and shunned, by the citizens of Puebla, was a band ofregular robbers, whom General Scott—for some sapient purpose of his own—had incorporated with the American army, under the title of the “Spy Company”—the name taken from the service they were intended to perform.

They were the band of captain—usually styled “colonel”—Dominguez; an ex-officer of Santa Anna’s army, who for years had sustained himself in the mountains around Peroté, and themal paisof El Piñol—a terror to all travellers not rich enough to command a strong escort of Government “dragones.”

They were true highwaymen—salteadores del camino grande—each mounted on his own horse, and armed with carbine, pistol, lance, or long sword!

They were dressed in various fashions; but generally in the picturesquerancherocostume ofjaqueta, calzoneros, and broad-brimmed high-crowned hats; booted, spurred, sashed, laced, and tassel led.

On the shoulders of some might be seen theserapé; while not a few were draped with the magnificentmanga.

On joining us they were a hundred and twenty strong, with recognised officers—a captain and a couple of “tenientes,” with the usual number of “sarjentes” and “cabos.”

So close was their resemblance to theguerillerosof the enemy, that, to prevent our men from shooting them by mistake, they had been compelled to adopt a distinguishing badge.

It consisted of a strip of scarlet stuff, worn, bandlike, round their sombreros—with the loose ends dangling down to the shoulder.

The symbol naturally led to a name. They were known to our soldiers as the “Red Hats”—the phrase not unfrequently coupled with a rude adjunctive.

Outlawed in their own land—now associated with its invaders—it is scarce necessary to say that the Red Hats were an object of terror wherever they had a chance of showing their not very cheerful faces.

And in no place more than La Puebla; that had given birth to at least one-half of them, and to all of them, at one time or another, shelter within its gaols!

Now returned to it under theaegisof the American eagle, there was a fine opportunity for the Red Hats to settle old scores withalcaldes, reyidores, and the like; and they were not backward in availing themselves of it.

The consequence was, that the Poblanos soon laid aside their bullying tone; and were only too well pleased when allowed to pass tranquilly through their own streets.

I was one among many other officers of the American army who felt disgust at this association withsalteadores—solely an idea of our superannuated commander-in-chief, since celebrated as the “hero” of Bull’s Run.

Endowed with a wonderful conceit in his “strategical combinations,” the employment of the Spy company was one in which he felt no little pride; while we regarded it as a positive disgrace.

The act might have been allowable under the pressure of a severe necessity. But none such existed. In the anarchical land invaded by us we could have found spies enough—without appealing to its cut-throats.

It is not to be denied that Dominguez and his robbers did us good service. Faithfulness to our cause was a necessity of their existence. Outlawed before—now doubly estranged by their treason—they were hated by their countrymen with an intensity beyond bounds; and, wherever caught straying beyond our lines, death was their certain doom.

In several skirmishes, into which they were drawn with their own guerilleros, they fought like very tigers—well knowing that, if taken, they had no mercy to expect.

On their side thelex talioniswas practised with a loose hand; so loose that it soon became necessary to restrain it; and they were no longer allowed to go scouting on their own account. Whenever their services were required, they had to be performed under the eye of an officer of mounted rifles or dragoons, with a troop of these acting in concert.

But the terror originally inspired by them continued till the end of the campaign; and the sight of a Red Hat coming along the street was sufficient to terrify the women, and send the children screaming within doors.

In no place were our red-handed allies held in greater detestation than in the city of La Puebla—partly from the striking resemblance borne to them by a large number of its population, and an antipathy on this account; partly from old hostilities; and, perhaps, not a little from the fact of our having there, more than elsewhere, permitted them to carry out their proclivities.

There was a sort of tacit consent to their swaggering among the Poblanos; as a punishment to the latter for the trouble, whichtheirswaggering had caused to us.

It was only for a time, however; and, when things appeared to be going too far, the good old Anglo-American morality—inculcated by thetownship school—resumed its sway over the minds of our soldiers; and the Red Hats were coerced into better behaviour.

Chapter Twelve.“Un Clavo Saca Otro Clavo.”Now that its streets were no longer obstructed by the fear of mob violence, or midnight assassination, we had an opportunity of exploring the “City of the Angels.”A fine old town we found it—with its grand cathedral, of which, according to monkish legend,realangels were the architects; its scores ofcapillasandparroquias; its hundreds of massive stone and stuccoed houses; and its thousands ofadobédwellings.Besides those standing, we discovered whole streets that had fallen to decay;barriosof uninhabited ruins, covered with a weed-tangle of convolvuli, cowage, and other creepers, growing in green luxuriousness over the chaos of crumbling walls.No other evidence is needed to prove that La Puebla, still the third city of Anahuac, was once much grander than it is to-day.I sought distraction in wandering through its streets; though there was one into which I never went—the Calle del Obispo.I shunned it with as much zeal as if there had been a plague in it; though I knew it containeduna cosa muy linda—the fairest thing in the city of Puebla.And it was for this that I shunned it. Since I had no longer the slightest hope of possessing Mercedes Villa-Señor, I was acting in accordance with the counsel of a friend, sager than myself, to whom I had communicated the story of my illusion. The course advised by him was to forget her,—if I could.“Don’t go near again, nor see her on any account,” were the words of my wise counsellor. “It’s the only plan with a passion like yours—suddenly conceived, and, perhaps, founded on a mistaken fancy. She may not be such perfection, after all. You’ve had but a poor chance of judging. Beauty in the balcony is sometimes wonderfully changed when it descends into the street. No doubt this damsel at close quarters would turn out very different from what you describe her. It’s only imagination.”“No imagination could create such a form—such a face—such—”“Such fiddlesticks! Come, old fellow! Don’t give way to this confounded romancing. I venture to say, that, if you could see her at six feet distance, and under a good strong light, you’d be completely disenchanted. The same tripe-coloured skin all these Spanish women have—that won’t bear the sun upon it. I wouldn’t give one of our fair-haired Saxon girls for a whole shipload of them.”“Take my advice,” continued my mentor, whose leaning was towards light hair; “don’t see her again. If she should prove plain, it would only cause you a chagrin to discover it; and, if she really be the angel you think she is, better you should never more meet her—except in heaven! From what you’ve told me, she’s either engaged to this young fellow, or in the fair way of being made a fool of—a thing not so uncommon among the damsels of this good city. In either case there’s no chance for you. Give up fretting about her. It will be easy as falling off a log. Don’t go into the street where she lives; though I don’t suppose there’d be much danger of seeing her if you did—now that those rascally Red Hats are about. In a month more we’ll be on the march for the Halls of the Moctezumas; and there you’ll either get a bullet in your abdomen, or another shot through the heart, from a pair of eyes perhaps as sparkling as those of the Villa-Señor.”The word “never” was upon my lips, and the thought was in my mind. I did not utter it, knowing that my friend would only laugh at me.“Un clavo saca otro clavo,” (one nail drives out another), continued my Job’s comforter; “A proverb of their own exactly applicable to your case. Ah! well do they understand the intricacies and tricks of love. These same Spaniards understood them three hundred years ago; while we simple Saxons only knew them as instincts. No doubt Miss Mercedes has often heard the proverb—perhaps often practised it. So take my advice, old boy, and do you the same. Take for your motto, ‘un clavo saca otro clavo!’”“All very well for you, who have no love to be expelled. That is a thing not so easy, as you imagine.”“Bah! Easy enough. Look around you. I’ll warrant you’ll see plenty of beautiful women—according to your style—among these dark-complexioned señoritas. Go out upon the streets—into the Alameda—to church—anywhere, excepting into the ‘street of the bishop.’”I followed my friend’s advice, and sought for the “un clavo” that should force out the “otro clavo.” I did not succeed in finding it. The first nail held its place in my heart, despite every endeavour to draw it.Still did I persevere in the resolution to see Mercedes no more—stern struggle though it cost me.It was not necessary I should shut my eyes, while passing through the streets. There was little likelihood of my encountering her by chance. More than ever did the ladies keep to their seclusion. And no wonder, during the reign of the Red Hats.The few who sallied forth in carriages, for a drive round the Alameda, were either the wives of foreign merchants, or belonging to one of the half dozen families, who, from interested motives, had become, for the time, “Ayankeado.”With these exceptions, we saw only the little brown-skinnedleperas, in their hideous slate-coloured rebosos; and now and then, when chance conducted us to a fandango, a few flaunting specimens of the class “poblana,” whose patriotism was not proof against our purses.Among theéliteour epaulettes were not specially attractive; and our company was altogether tabooed. The gown appeared to take the shine out of the sword. The soldier might rule in the streets; but within doors the sleekcurashad it all their own way.It was these last to whom we were chiefly indebted for the taboo; and of course we hated them accordingly.For my part, I cared but little. If thedonçellasof Puebla had made me ever so welcome, I could not have responded to their smiles. The wound I had received from one of them was sufficient for the time; and, so long as it remained uncicatrised, I had no zest for a secondamour.For weeks I adhered to the programme traced out by my friend; but without finding the relief he had so confidently prognosticated.The society of woman was absolutely distasteful to me. I had become almost agynothrope.I sought distraction in the company of men; and, I regret to add, men who playedmonté.Play is but a sorry resource—though one of the commonest resorted to—for soothing the pangs of an unrequited passion. The coquette makes many a recruit for the gaming table. Homburg has seen its scores of frequenters—sent there by her arts—hanging over its tables with broken hearts—even when fortune seems smiling upon them!I had no difficulty in discovering a place to practise the soul-absorbing passion. Professional gamblers travelled along with us—as if part of the regular staff of the army. Every division had its “dealer” of “faro” or “monté;” and almost the first canvas spread in an encampment was that which covered thetapis vertof a card table!In the country it was a tent; in the city a grand saloon, with chandeliers and a set supper.Our army gamblers usually superintended such places—having established temporary partnerships with the indigenous vultures who owned them.The game usually played was that universal in Mexico—monté. It was the most convenient—permitting players of all kinds and classes, and equally favourable to the novice as to the skilled gambler. There is no skill required—not much knowledge of any sort. A “banquier,” a “croupier,” a piece of green baize, and a pack of Spanish cards—voilà tout!There were two or three of these gambling saloons, or “montébanks,” in La Puebla. More likely there were twenty; but two or three were grand establishments—frequented by the Poblanos of the better class; where golddoblonesmight be seen upon the green cloth as common as silver dollars. They were attachments to the grand Cafés, or Exchanges, that in Mexican cities take the place of our clubs—serving as places of rendezvous for thehaciendados, and higher class ofcommerciantes.One was much frequented by the officers of our army; though not exclusively by them. The Mexican gentlemen did not deny us their company over themontétable; and around it might be seen representatives of the Teutonic and Latinic races, in nearly equal proportions—with many a type between.Though the natives were all in civilian costume, we knew that there were among them men who had once worn uniforms. In fact, some of them were our prisonerson parole; whom we had encountered, and captured, at the siege of Vera Cruz, or on the ensanguined summit of Cerro Gordo.The poverty of these men was too conspicuous to escape observation. Their pay—scant at all times and often in arrears—was now stopped altogether; and how they contrived to liveon parole, they and God alone can tell.It was painful to note their contrivances for keeping up the appearance of gentility. A close inspection of their coats would show where the shoulder-straps and facings had been stripped off—to convert them into civilian garments; and the unfaded stripe, down the seams of their pantaloons, told where the gold lace had once gaily glittered.They were usually provided with an ample cloth cloak; which in the streets effectually concealed the transformation. But in the hot saloons this could not well be worn; and a man standing behind, as they sat around themontétable, might look upon a pair of shoulders—now plain—that had been lately decorated with the epaulettes of a colonel, or even general!Their ventures were usually of the most modest kind: beginning with apeseta, and graduating upwards, in proportion to the propitiousness of Fortune. When their luck was good, they gambled withdoblones.Otherwise, thepesetaended their play for the night; but, instead of retiring in despair, they would continue at the table; as though they took a pleasure in contemplating the gains of the more fortunate players, and the losses of the banker!

Now that its streets were no longer obstructed by the fear of mob violence, or midnight assassination, we had an opportunity of exploring the “City of the Angels.”

A fine old town we found it—with its grand cathedral, of which, according to monkish legend,realangels were the architects; its scores ofcapillasandparroquias; its hundreds of massive stone and stuccoed houses; and its thousands ofadobédwellings.

Besides those standing, we discovered whole streets that had fallen to decay;barriosof uninhabited ruins, covered with a weed-tangle of convolvuli, cowage, and other creepers, growing in green luxuriousness over the chaos of crumbling walls.

No other evidence is needed to prove that La Puebla, still the third city of Anahuac, was once much grander than it is to-day.

I sought distraction in wandering through its streets; though there was one into which I never went—the Calle del Obispo.

I shunned it with as much zeal as if there had been a plague in it; though I knew it containeduna cosa muy linda—the fairest thing in the city of Puebla.

And it was for this that I shunned it. Since I had no longer the slightest hope of possessing Mercedes Villa-Señor, I was acting in accordance with the counsel of a friend, sager than myself, to whom I had communicated the story of my illusion. The course advised by him was to forget her,—if I could.

“Don’t go near again, nor see her on any account,” were the words of my wise counsellor. “It’s the only plan with a passion like yours—suddenly conceived, and, perhaps, founded on a mistaken fancy. She may not be such perfection, after all. You’ve had but a poor chance of judging. Beauty in the balcony is sometimes wonderfully changed when it descends into the street. No doubt this damsel at close quarters would turn out very different from what you describe her. It’s only imagination.”

“No imagination could create such a form—such a face—such—”

“Such fiddlesticks! Come, old fellow! Don’t give way to this confounded romancing. I venture to say, that, if you could see her at six feet distance, and under a good strong light, you’d be completely disenchanted. The same tripe-coloured skin all these Spanish women have—that won’t bear the sun upon it. I wouldn’t give one of our fair-haired Saxon girls for a whole shipload of them.”

“Take my advice,” continued my mentor, whose leaning was towards light hair; “don’t see her again. If she should prove plain, it would only cause you a chagrin to discover it; and, if she really be the angel you think she is, better you should never more meet her—except in heaven! From what you’ve told me, she’s either engaged to this young fellow, or in the fair way of being made a fool of—a thing not so uncommon among the damsels of this good city. In either case there’s no chance for you. Give up fretting about her. It will be easy as falling off a log. Don’t go into the street where she lives; though I don’t suppose there’d be much danger of seeing her if you did—now that those rascally Red Hats are about. In a month more we’ll be on the march for the Halls of the Moctezumas; and there you’ll either get a bullet in your abdomen, or another shot through the heart, from a pair of eyes perhaps as sparkling as those of the Villa-Señor.”

The word “never” was upon my lips, and the thought was in my mind. I did not utter it, knowing that my friend would only laugh at me.

“Un clavo saca otro clavo,” (one nail drives out another), continued my Job’s comforter; “A proverb of their own exactly applicable to your case. Ah! well do they understand the intricacies and tricks of love. These same Spaniards understood them three hundred years ago; while we simple Saxons only knew them as instincts. No doubt Miss Mercedes has often heard the proverb—perhaps often practised it. So take my advice, old boy, and do you the same. Take for your motto, ‘un clavo saca otro clavo!’”

“All very well for you, who have no love to be expelled. That is a thing not so easy, as you imagine.”

“Bah! Easy enough. Look around you. I’ll warrant you’ll see plenty of beautiful women—according to your style—among these dark-complexioned señoritas. Go out upon the streets—into the Alameda—to church—anywhere, excepting into the ‘street of the bishop.’”

I followed my friend’s advice, and sought for the “un clavo” that should force out the “otro clavo.” I did not succeed in finding it. The first nail held its place in my heart, despite every endeavour to draw it.

Still did I persevere in the resolution to see Mercedes no more—stern struggle though it cost me.

It was not necessary I should shut my eyes, while passing through the streets. There was little likelihood of my encountering her by chance. More than ever did the ladies keep to their seclusion. And no wonder, during the reign of the Red Hats.

The few who sallied forth in carriages, for a drive round the Alameda, were either the wives of foreign merchants, or belonging to one of the half dozen families, who, from interested motives, had become, for the time, “Ayankeado.”

With these exceptions, we saw only the little brown-skinnedleperas, in their hideous slate-coloured rebosos; and now and then, when chance conducted us to a fandango, a few flaunting specimens of the class “poblana,” whose patriotism was not proof against our purses.

Among theéliteour epaulettes were not specially attractive; and our company was altogether tabooed. The gown appeared to take the shine out of the sword. The soldier might rule in the streets; but within doors the sleekcurashad it all their own way.

It was these last to whom we were chiefly indebted for the taboo; and of course we hated them accordingly.

For my part, I cared but little. If thedonçellasof Puebla had made me ever so welcome, I could not have responded to their smiles. The wound I had received from one of them was sufficient for the time; and, so long as it remained uncicatrised, I had no zest for a secondamour.

For weeks I adhered to the programme traced out by my friend; but without finding the relief he had so confidently prognosticated.

The society of woman was absolutely distasteful to me. I had become almost agynothrope.

I sought distraction in the company of men; and, I regret to add, men who playedmonté.

Play is but a sorry resource—though one of the commonest resorted to—for soothing the pangs of an unrequited passion. The coquette makes many a recruit for the gaming table. Homburg has seen its scores of frequenters—sent there by her arts—hanging over its tables with broken hearts—even when fortune seems smiling upon them!

I had no difficulty in discovering a place to practise the soul-absorbing passion. Professional gamblers travelled along with us—as if part of the regular staff of the army. Every division had its “dealer” of “faro” or “monté;” and almost the first canvas spread in an encampment was that which covered thetapis vertof a card table!

In the country it was a tent; in the city a grand saloon, with chandeliers and a set supper.

Our army gamblers usually superintended such places—having established temporary partnerships with the indigenous vultures who owned them.

The game usually played was that universal in Mexico—monté. It was the most convenient—permitting players of all kinds and classes, and equally favourable to the novice as to the skilled gambler. There is no skill required—not much knowledge of any sort. A “banquier,” a “croupier,” a piece of green baize, and a pack of Spanish cards—voilà tout!

There were two or three of these gambling saloons, or “montébanks,” in La Puebla. More likely there were twenty; but two or three were grand establishments—frequented by the Poblanos of the better class; where golddoblonesmight be seen upon the green cloth as common as silver dollars. They were attachments to the grand Cafés, or Exchanges, that in Mexican cities take the place of our clubs—serving as places of rendezvous for thehaciendados, and higher class ofcommerciantes.

One was much frequented by the officers of our army; though not exclusively by them. The Mexican gentlemen did not deny us their company over themontétable; and around it might be seen representatives of the Teutonic and Latinic races, in nearly equal proportions—with many a type between.

Though the natives were all in civilian costume, we knew that there were among them men who had once worn uniforms. In fact, some of them were our prisonerson parole; whom we had encountered, and captured, at the siege of Vera Cruz, or on the ensanguined summit of Cerro Gordo.

The poverty of these men was too conspicuous to escape observation. Their pay—scant at all times and often in arrears—was now stopped altogether; and how they contrived to liveon parole, they and God alone can tell.

It was painful to note their contrivances for keeping up the appearance of gentility. A close inspection of their coats would show where the shoulder-straps and facings had been stripped off—to convert them into civilian garments; and the unfaded stripe, down the seams of their pantaloons, told where the gold lace had once gaily glittered.

They were usually provided with an ample cloth cloak; which in the streets effectually concealed the transformation. But in the hot saloons this could not well be worn; and a man standing behind, as they sat around themontétable, might look upon a pair of shoulders—now plain—that had been lately decorated with the epaulettes of a colonel, or even general!

Their ventures were usually of the most modest kind: beginning with apeseta, and graduating upwards, in proportion to the propitiousness of Fortune. When their luck was good, they gambled withdoblones.

Otherwise, thepesetaended their play for the night; but, instead of retiring in despair, they would continue at the table; as though they took a pleasure in contemplating the gains of the more fortunate players, and the losses of the banker!

Chapter Thirteen.A Pleasant Misconception.There was one of these frequenters of the saloon in whom I felt a peculiar interest. Our acquaintance did not commence at themontétable. I first saw him in the Calle del Obispo, and, on the same night, in the Callecito de los Pajaros. His name was Francisco Moreno: the man who had crossed me in love and saved my life!I had ample opportunity of studying his character, without referring to either incident of that night. I had the advantage of him: for, although I rememberedhimwell, and with strange emotions, he had no recollection ofme!I had reasons for keeping my incognito.Though we had become otherwise acquainted—and were upon such terms of comity, as two strangers who meet over a gaming table—I could learn very little about him—beyond the fact that he was, or had been, an officer in the Mexican army. My own observation told me as much as this. His bearing, with an occasional speech that escaped him, proclaimed the military man: for in this, as in other callings, there is a freemasonry: and therajpootof one land will easily recognise hiscastein another.He was one of the Mexican officerson parole; but we had reason to believe that there were many others among us—during our long interval of inaction—who had no business to be there. We were not very particular aboutspies; and, in truth, they might have come and gone—and they did come and go—with as much freedom as if no guard had been kept. Successes unexpected—almost astounding—a series of them—had taught us to despise even the secret machinations of our enemy. His scouts might have entered our camp, partaken of hospitality in our tents—even in the marquee of the commander-in-chief—and departed again with as much facility as a man might obtain an interview with his hatter or tailor!No one thought of suspecting Francisco Moreno. No one gave heed to him, any more than to remark what a fine, noble-looking young fellow he was.I alone made a particular study of him. I knew that he was more than noble-looking—that he was noble.It maddened me to think he was the first; though I could scarce he grieved at his being the last. Had it not been so, I should not have lived to take note of it. I had strange fancies—sometimes not very creditable ones—about captain Moreno.It was plain that he was poor; though not one of those who had converted the military tunic into a civilian’s coat. His dress, if threadbare, would pass muster as a correct costume. Nor did he put downpesetasupon thetapis vert. His stake was usually apeso—sometimes two—but never rising to theonza. The dollar lost, he would retire from the table. Winning, he would remain.One night I observed a reversion of the rule. His stakes were being doubled at each draw of the cards; and yet he rose from his seat, and hastily took his departure from the place!Many wondered at this. A man must be mad to leave such luck? It was like flinging the favours of Fortune back into her face.I had a clearer comprehension of what had caused his defection from the gaming circle. I divined, that he was going to worship the goddess elsewhere, and under another title.I had heard the cathedral clock strike ten—the hour when I had first seen him in the Calle del Obispo. It suggested the conjecture that he was going thither.Had my own luck at the game been ten times greater than it was—and I was winning—I could not have stayed to take advantage of it.I clutched at my stake, as soon as it was covered by the coin of the croupier; and, starting up from the table, followed Francisco Moreno from the saloon.Whether my abrupt departure created as much surprise, as that of the Mexican, I never knew.It may have done; but at that moment I was absolutely indifferent, either to the thing itself, or the conjectures that might arise respecting it.I had but one thought in my mind; and that was to witness a second of those interviews—the first of which had lacerated my heart to its core!I felt as the bird may feel, fluttering into the jaws of the envenomed reptile; as the moth that goes voluntarily to have its wings scorched by the candle!There was a fascination in the thought of thus rushing upon ruin! Perhaps it was the knowledge, that my heart could not be reduced to a greater desolation than it already knew.For the first time in four weeks I entered the Calle del Obispo.Francisco was before me. I had correctly divined his intent. He had forsaken the smiles of Fortune to bask in those of Mercedes!We took different sides of the street; he going silently along thefaçadeof the Casa Villa-Señor; I skulking, thief-like, under the portal of the opposite house.We were not kept waiting for as much as an instant. Scarce had we taken our respective stands, when the blind was drawn back, and a woman appeared in the window. Of course it was Mercedes.“You are late, Francisco!” said she, in an undertone, and with the slightest accent of reproach. “The cathedral has tolled ten minutes ago! It is very cruel. You know how I am watched, and that every moment is so precious!”Francisco stammered out some excuse, which appeared to satisfy her. I could see she was not exacting—by the easy grace with which she forgave him. Even this increased my anguish.“Do you know, dearest, papa is more suspicious than ever! Even now I am afraid he will be coming this way. He has not yet retired to his bed; and never does till both sister and I have gone to ours.”“Why don’t you give him a sleeping draught? Put poppy-seed in his chocolate. Do that,niña, and we might have a better chance of a little conversation at this hour. I never see you now, or only for a moment. It’s very tiresome to be kept apart in this fashion. I hope it is the same to you?”“Do you doubt it? You do not? But what help for it? He is so much against you. I think some one has been telling him something bad about you. When we go tomatinshe always sendsTiaJosefa along with us, and I’m sure she has instructions to watch us. I know it’s onlyme. He’s not half so careful about sister. He allows her to drive out alone—to the Alameda—anywhere. If I go, I must be accompanied by Tia Josefa.”“The deuce take Tia Josefa!”“And do you know, Francisco, there’s something worse yet? I’ve only heard it this very day. Josefa told it me. I believe papa put it in her head to tell me. If I don’t consent to marryhim—you know whom I mean—I’m to be shut up in a convent! Only think of it! Imprisoned for life in a dark cloister, or marry a man I can’t love—old enough to be my uncle!Ay Dios! What am I to do about it?”“Neither one nor the other of those two things—if I can hinder it. Don’t be uneasy, love! I’ll find some way to save you from such a fate—which would be equally ruinous to myself. Your father can have nothing against me, except that I’m poor. Who knows but that I may become rich during this war. I have hopes of promotion, and—listen dearest!”Here the voice of Francisco sank into a whisper, as if the communication he was making required peculiar secrecy.The words were not audible across the street; neither were those murmured in response. I only heard some phrases that fell from the lady’s lips as she turned to go inside.“Adios querido! Hasta la mañana!”Far sweeter tomyear were some words spoken by Francisco himself.“Stay! A moment,dear Dolores! one moment—”I did not hear the conclusion of his passionate appeal, nor the reply—if there was one.Dolores might have stayed in thebalcon, and chatted with her dear Francis for an hour by the cathedral clock, without giving me the slightest chagrin. I was too happy to listen to another word of their conversation.Mercedes—myMercedes—was not she who had dropped that little note, and said to him who received it, “Va con Dios!”There was still a hope that her heart was free; that no “querido Francisco” had yet taken possession of it!“God grant but that,” was my mental prayer, as I turned to take my departure, “and Mercedes may yet be mine!”

There was one of these frequenters of the saloon in whom I felt a peculiar interest. Our acquaintance did not commence at themontétable. I first saw him in the Calle del Obispo, and, on the same night, in the Callecito de los Pajaros. His name was Francisco Moreno: the man who had crossed me in love and saved my life!

I had ample opportunity of studying his character, without referring to either incident of that night. I had the advantage of him: for, although I rememberedhimwell, and with strange emotions, he had no recollection ofme!

I had reasons for keeping my incognito.

Though we had become otherwise acquainted—and were upon such terms of comity, as two strangers who meet over a gaming table—I could learn very little about him—beyond the fact that he was, or had been, an officer in the Mexican army. My own observation told me as much as this. His bearing, with an occasional speech that escaped him, proclaimed the military man: for in this, as in other callings, there is a freemasonry: and therajpootof one land will easily recognise hiscastein another.

He was one of the Mexican officerson parole; but we had reason to believe that there were many others among us—during our long interval of inaction—who had no business to be there. We were not very particular aboutspies; and, in truth, they might have come and gone—and they did come and go—with as much freedom as if no guard had been kept. Successes unexpected—almost astounding—a series of them—had taught us to despise even the secret machinations of our enemy. His scouts might have entered our camp, partaken of hospitality in our tents—even in the marquee of the commander-in-chief—and departed again with as much facility as a man might obtain an interview with his hatter or tailor!

No one thought of suspecting Francisco Moreno. No one gave heed to him, any more than to remark what a fine, noble-looking young fellow he was.

I alone made a particular study of him. I knew that he was more than noble-looking—that he was noble.

It maddened me to think he was the first; though I could scarce he grieved at his being the last. Had it not been so, I should not have lived to take note of it. I had strange fancies—sometimes not very creditable ones—about captain Moreno.

It was plain that he was poor; though not one of those who had converted the military tunic into a civilian’s coat. His dress, if threadbare, would pass muster as a correct costume. Nor did he put downpesetasupon thetapis vert. His stake was usually apeso—sometimes two—but never rising to theonza. The dollar lost, he would retire from the table. Winning, he would remain.

One night I observed a reversion of the rule. His stakes were being doubled at each draw of the cards; and yet he rose from his seat, and hastily took his departure from the place!

Many wondered at this. A man must be mad to leave such luck? It was like flinging the favours of Fortune back into her face.

I had a clearer comprehension of what had caused his defection from the gaming circle. I divined, that he was going to worship the goddess elsewhere, and under another title.

I had heard the cathedral clock strike ten—the hour when I had first seen him in the Calle del Obispo. It suggested the conjecture that he was going thither.

Had my own luck at the game been ten times greater than it was—and I was winning—I could not have stayed to take advantage of it.

I clutched at my stake, as soon as it was covered by the coin of the croupier; and, starting up from the table, followed Francisco Moreno from the saloon.

Whether my abrupt departure created as much surprise, as that of the Mexican, I never knew.

It may have done; but at that moment I was absolutely indifferent, either to the thing itself, or the conjectures that might arise respecting it.

I had but one thought in my mind; and that was to witness a second of those interviews—the first of which had lacerated my heart to its core!

I felt as the bird may feel, fluttering into the jaws of the envenomed reptile; as the moth that goes voluntarily to have its wings scorched by the candle!

There was a fascination in the thought of thus rushing upon ruin! Perhaps it was the knowledge, that my heart could not be reduced to a greater desolation than it already knew.

For the first time in four weeks I entered the Calle del Obispo.

Francisco was before me. I had correctly divined his intent. He had forsaken the smiles of Fortune to bask in those of Mercedes!

We took different sides of the street; he going silently along thefaçadeof the Casa Villa-Señor; I skulking, thief-like, under the portal of the opposite house.

We were not kept waiting for as much as an instant. Scarce had we taken our respective stands, when the blind was drawn back, and a woman appeared in the window. Of course it was Mercedes.

“You are late, Francisco!” said she, in an undertone, and with the slightest accent of reproach. “The cathedral has tolled ten minutes ago! It is very cruel. You know how I am watched, and that every moment is so precious!”

Francisco stammered out some excuse, which appeared to satisfy her. I could see she was not exacting—by the easy grace with which she forgave him. Even this increased my anguish.

“Do you know, dearest, papa is more suspicious than ever! Even now I am afraid he will be coming this way. He has not yet retired to his bed; and never does till both sister and I have gone to ours.”

“Why don’t you give him a sleeping draught? Put poppy-seed in his chocolate. Do that,niña, and we might have a better chance of a little conversation at this hour. I never see you now, or only for a moment. It’s very tiresome to be kept apart in this fashion. I hope it is the same to you?”

“Do you doubt it? You do not? But what help for it? He is so much against you. I think some one has been telling him something bad about you. When we go tomatinshe always sendsTiaJosefa along with us, and I’m sure she has instructions to watch us. I know it’s onlyme. He’s not half so careful about sister. He allows her to drive out alone—to the Alameda—anywhere. If I go, I must be accompanied by Tia Josefa.”

“The deuce take Tia Josefa!”

“And do you know, Francisco, there’s something worse yet? I’ve only heard it this very day. Josefa told it me. I believe papa put it in her head to tell me. If I don’t consent to marryhim—you know whom I mean—I’m to be shut up in a convent! Only think of it! Imprisoned for life in a dark cloister, or marry a man I can’t love—old enough to be my uncle!Ay Dios! What am I to do about it?”

“Neither one nor the other of those two things—if I can hinder it. Don’t be uneasy, love! I’ll find some way to save you from such a fate—which would be equally ruinous to myself. Your father can have nothing against me, except that I’m poor. Who knows but that I may become rich during this war. I have hopes of promotion, and—listen dearest!”

Here the voice of Francisco sank into a whisper, as if the communication he was making required peculiar secrecy.

The words were not audible across the street; neither were those murmured in response. I only heard some phrases that fell from the lady’s lips as she turned to go inside.

“Adios querido! Hasta la mañana!”

Far sweeter tomyear were some words spoken by Francisco himself.

“Stay! A moment,dear Dolores! one moment—”

I did not hear the conclusion of his passionate appeal, nor the reply—if there was one.

Dolores might have stayed in thebalcon, and chatted with her dear Francis for an hour by the cathedral clock, without giving me the slightest chagrin. I was too happy to listen to another word of their conversation.

Mercedes—myMercedes—was not she who had dropped that little note, and said to him who received it, “Va con Dios!”

There was still a hope that her heart was free; that no “querido Francisco” had yet taken possession of it!

“God grant but that,” was my mental prayer, as I turned to take my departure, “and Mercedes may yet be mine!”

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