MEXICO.

We will now leap over about two months and, leaving the Rocky Mountains, invite the reader to accompany us to the heart of Mexico.

The Spanish Conquistadors selected with admirable tact the sites on which they founded the cities destined to insure their power, and become at a later date the centres of their immense trade, and the entrepôts of their incalculable wealth.

Even at the present day, although owing to the negligence of the Creoles and their continual fratricidal Wars, combined with the sudden earthquakes, these cities are half ruined, and the life which the powerful Spanish organization caused to circulate in them has died out, these cities are still a subject of surprise to the traveller accustomed to the morbid crowding of old European cities. He regards with awe these vast squares, surrounded by cloister-like arcades; these broad and regular streets through which refreshing waters continually flow; these shady gardens in which thousands of gaily-plumaged birds twitter; these bold bridges; these majestically simple buildings, whose interiors contain incalculable wealth. And yet, we repeat, the majority of these cities are only the shadow of themselves. They seem dead, and are only aroused by the furious yells of an insurrection, to lead for a few days a feverish existence under the excitement of political passions. But so soon as the corpses are removed, and water has washed away the blood stains, the streets revert to their solitude, the inhabitants hide themselves in their carefully-closed houses, and all becomes again gloomy, mournful, and silent, only to be galvanized afresh by the hoarse murmurs of an approaching revolt.

If we except Lima, the splendid "Ciudad de los Reyes," Mexico is probably the largest and handsomest of all the cities that cover the soil of ancient Spanish America.

From whatever point we regard it, Mexico affords a magnificent view; but if you wish to enjoy a really fairy-like sight, ascend at sunset one of the towers of the cathedral, whence you will see the strangest and most picturesque panorama imaginable unrolled at your feet.

Mexico certainly existed before the discovery of America, and our readers will probably pardon a digression showing how the foundation of the city is narrated by old chroniclers.

In the year of the death of Huetzin, King of Tezcuco, that is to say, the "spot where people stop," because it was at this very place that the migration of the Chichimèques terminated, the Mexicans made an eruption into the country, and reached the place where Mexico now stands, at the beginning of the year 1140 of our era. This place then formed part of the dominions of Aculhua, Lord of Azcapotzalco.

According to paintings and the old chronicles, these Indians came from the empires of the province of Xalisco. It appears that they were of the same race as the Toltecs, and of the family of the noble Huetzin, who with his children and servants escaped during the destruction of the Toltecs, and was residing at that period at Chapultepec, which was also destroyed at a later date.

It is recorded that he traversed with them the country of Michoacán, and took refuge in the province of Atzlán, where he died, and had for his successors Ozolopan, his son, and Aztlal, his grandson, whose heir was Ozolopan II. The latter, remembering the country of his ancestors, resolved to return thither with his entire nation, which was already called Mezetin. After many adventures and combats, they at length reached the banks of a great lake covered with an infinitude of islands, and as the recollection of their country had been traditionally kept up among them, they at once recognized it, though not one of them had even seen it before. Too weak to resist the people that surrounded them, or to establish themselves in the open country, they founded on several of the islands, which they connected together, a town, which they called after themselves, Mexico, and which at a later date was destined to be the capital of a powerful empire.

Although the Mexicans arrived on the banks of the lake in 1140, it was not till two years later that the American Venice began to emerge from the bosom of the waters.

We have dwelt on these details in order to correct an error made by a modern author, who attributes to the Aztecs the foundation of this city, to which he gives the name of Tenochtitlan, instead of Temixtetlan, which is the correct name.[1]

Like Venice, its European sister, Mexico was only a collection of cabins, offering a precarious shelter to wretched fishermen, who were incessantly kept in a state of alarm by the attacks of their neighbours. The Mexicans, at first scattered over a great number of small islands, felt the necessity of collecting together in order to offer a better resistance. By their patience and courage they succeeded in building houses, raised on piles, and employing the mud of the lagoons, held together by branches of trees, they created thechinampas, or floating gardens, the most curious in the world, on which they sowed vegetables, pimento, and maize, and thus, with the aquatic birds they managed to catch on the lake, they contrived to be entirely independent of their neighbours.

Almost destroyed during the obstinate fights between the natives and the Spaniards, Mexico, four years after the conquest, was entirely rebuilt by Fernando Cortez. But the new city in no way resembled the old one. Most of the canals were filled up, and paved over; magnificent palaces and sumptuous monasteries rose as if by enchantment, and the city became entirely Spanish.

Mexico has been so frequently described by more practised pens than ours, and we, in previous works, have had such frequent occasions to allude to it, that we will not attempt any description here, but continue our story without further delay.

It was October 12th, 1854, two months, day for day, had elapsed since the unfortunate Count de Prébois Crancé, victim of an iniquitous sentence, had honourably fallen at Guaymas beneath the Mexican bullets.[2]A thick fog had hung over the city for the whole day, changing at times into a fine drizzle, which after sunset became sharper, although a heavy fog still prevailed. However, at about eight in the evening the rain ceased to fall, and the stagnant waters of the lake began to reflect a few particles of brighter sky. The snow-clad summit of Iztaczihuatl, or the White Woman, feebly glistened in the pale watery moonbeams, while Popocatepetl remained buried in the clouds.[3]

The streets and squares were deserted, although the night was not yet far advanced; for the loungers and promenaders, driven away by the weather, had returned to their homes. A deep silence brooded over the city, whose lights expired one after the other, and only at lengthened intervals could be heard on the greasy pavement the footsteps of the serenos, or watchmen, who performed their melancholy walk, with the indifferent air peculiar to that estimable corporation. At times a few discordant sounds, escaping from the velorios were borne along on the breeze; but that was all—the city seemed asleep.

Half past nine was striking by the cathedral clock at the moment when a dull sound resembling the rustling of reeds shaken by the wind was audible on the gigantic highway joining the city to the main land. This sound soon became more distinct, and changed into the trampling of horses, which was deadened by the damp air and the ground softened by a lengthened rain. A black mass emerged from the fog, and two horsemen wrapped in thick cloaks stood out distinctly in the moonlight.

These horsemen seemed to have made a long journey; their steeds, covered with mud, limped at each step, and only advanced with extreme difficulty. They at length reached a low house, through whose dirty panes a doubtful light issued, which showed that the inhabitants were still awake.

The horsemen stopped before this house, which was an inn, and without dismounting, one of them gave the door two or three kicks, and called the host in a loud sharp voice. The latter, doubtless disturbed by this unusual summons at so improper an hour, was in no hurry to answer, and would have probably left the strangers for some time in the cold, if the man who had kicked, probably tired of waiting, had not thought of an expeditious means of obtaining an answer.

"Voto a Brios!" he shouted, as he drew a pistol from his holster, and cocked it, "since this dog is resolved not to open, I will send a bullet through his window."

This menace had been scarce uttered ere the door opened as if by enchantment, and the landlord appeared on the threshold. This man resembled landlords in all countries; he had, like them, a sleek and crafty look, but at this moment his obsequiousness badly concealed a profound terror, evidenced by the earthy pallor of his face.

"Hola, caballero," he said, with a respectful bow, "have a little patience, if you please. Caramba! how quick you are; it is plain to see that you are forasteros, and not acquainted with the custom of our country."

"No matter who I am," the stranger answered sharply; "are you a landlord—yes or no?"

"I have that honour, caballero," the host remarked, with a deeper bow than the first.

"If you are so, scoundrel," the stranger exclaimed angrily, "by what right do you, whose duty it is to be at the orders of the public, dare to keep me waiting thus at your door?"

The landlord had a strong inclination to get into a passion, but the resolute tone of the man who addressed him, and, above all, the pistol he still held in his hand, urged him to prudence and moderation; hence he answered with profound humility—

"Believe me, señor, that if I had known what a distinguished caballero did me the honour of stopping before my humble dwelling, I should have hastened to open."

"A truce to such impertinent remarks, and open the door."

The landlord bowed without replying this time, and whistled a lad, who came to help him in holding the travellers' horses; the latter dismounted, and entered the inn, while their tired steeds were led to the corral by the boy.

The room into which the travellers were introduced was low, black, and furnished with tables and benches in a filthy state, and mostly broken, while the floor of stamped earth was greasy and uneven. Above the bar was a statuette of the Virgin de la Soledad, before which burned a greasy candle. In short, this inn had nothing attractive or comfortable about it, and seemed to be a velorio of the lowest class, apparently used by the most wretched and least honourable ranks of Mexican society.

A glance was sufficient for the travellers to understand the place to which accident had led them, still they did not display any of the disgust which the sight of this cut-throat den inspired them with. They seated themselves as comfortably as they could at a table, and the one who had hitherto addressed mine host went on, while his silent companion leaned against the wall, and drew the folds of his cloak still higher up his face.

"Look here," he said, "we are literally dying of hunger, patron; could you not serve us up a morsel of something? I don't care what it is in the shape of food."

"Hum!" said the host with an embarrassed air, "it is very late, caballero, and I don't believe I have even a maize tortilla left in the whole house."

"Nonsense," the traveller replied, "I know all about it, so let us deal frankly with each other; give me some supper, for I am hungry, and we will not squabble about the price."

"Even if you paid me a piastre for every tortilla, excellency, I really could not supply you with two," the landlord replied, with increased constraint.

The traveller looked at him fixedly for a moment or two, and then laid his hand firmly on his arm, and pulled him toward the table.

"Now, look here, Ño Lusacho," he said to him curtly, "I intend to pass two hours in your hovel, at all risks; I know that between this and eleven o'clock you expect a large party, and that all is prepared to receive them."

The landlord attempted to give a denial, but the traveller cut him short.

"Silence," he continued, "I wish to be present at the meeting of these persons; of course I do not mean them to see me; but I must not only see them, but hear all they say. Put me where you please, that is your concern; but as any trouble deserves payment, here are ten ounces for you, and I will give you as many more when your visitors have gone, and I assure you that what I ask of you will not in any way compromise you, and that no one will ever know the bargain made between us—you understand me, I suppose? Now, I will add, that if you obstinately refuse the arrangement I offer——"

"Well, suppose I do?"

"I will blow out your brains," the traveller said distinctly; "my friend here will put you on his shoulder, throw you into the water, and all will be over. What do you think of my proposal?"

"Hang it, excellency," the poor fellow answered, with a grimace which attempted to resemble a smile, and trembling in all his limbs, "I think that I have no choice, and am compelled to accept."

"Good! now you are learning reason; but take these ounces as a consolation."

The landlord pocketed the money, as he raised his eyes to heaven and gave a deep sigh.

"Fear nothing,viva Dios!" the traveller continued; "all will pass off better than you suppose. At what hour do you expect your visitors?"

"At half past ten, excellency."

"Good! it is half past nine, we have time before us. Where do you propose to hide us?"

"In this room, excellency."

"Here, diablo; whereabouts?"

"Behind the bar; no one will dream of looking for you there, and, besides, I shall serve as a rampart to you."

"Then you will be present at the meeting?"

"Oh!" he said with a smile, "I am nobody; the more so, that if I spoke, my house would be ruined."

"That is true. Well, then, all is settled; when the hour arrives, you will place us behind the bar; but can my companion and I sit there with any degree of comfort?"

"Oh, you will have plenty of room."

"I fancy this is not the first time such a thing has occurred, eh?"

The landlord smiled, but made no answer: the traveller reflected for a moment.

"Give us something to eat," he at length said; "here are two piastres in addition for what you are going to place before us."

The landlord took the money, and forgetting that he had declared a few moments previously that he had nothing in the house, he instantly covered the table with provisions, which, if not particularly delicate, were, however, sufficiently appetizing, especially for men whose appetite appeared to be powerfully excited.

The two travellers vigorously attacked this improvised supper, and for about twenty minutes no other sound was heard but that of their jaws. When their hunger was at length appeased, the traveller who seemed to speak for both, thrust away his plate, and addressed the landlord, who was modestly standing behind him hat in hand.

"And now for another matter," he said; "how many lads have you to help you?"

"Two, excellency—the one who took your horses to the corral, and another."

"Very good. I presume you will not require both those lads to wait on your friends tonight?"

"Certainly not, excellency; indeed, for greater security, I shall wait on them alone."

"Better still; then, you see no inconvenience in sending of them into the Cuidad; of course on the understanding that he is well paid for the trip?"

"No inconvenience at all, excellency; what is the business?"

"Simply," he said, taking a letter from his bosom, "to convey this letter to Señor Don Antonio Rallier, in the Calle Secunda Monterilla, and bring me back the answer in the shortest possible period to this house."

"That is easy, excellency; if you will have the kindness to intrust the letter to me."

"Here it is, and four piastres for the journey."

The host bowed respectfully, and immediately left the room.

"I fancy, Curumilla," the traveller then said to his companion, "that our affairs are going well."

The other replied by a silent nod of assent, and a moment the landlord returned.

"Well?" the traveller asked.

"Your messenger has set off, excellency, but he will probably be some time ere he returns."

"Why so?"

"Because people are not allowed to ride about the city at night without a special authority, and he will be obliged to go and return on foot."

"No consequence, so long as he returns before sunrise."

"Oh, long before then, excellency."

"In that case all is for the best; but I think the moment is at hand when your friends will arrive."

"It is, excellency, so have the kindness to follow me."

"All right."

The travellers rose; in a twinkling the landlord removed all signs of supper, and then hid his guests behind the bar. This bar, which was very tall and deep, offered them a perfectly secure, if not convenient, hiding place, in which they crouched down with a pistol in each hand, in order to be ready for any event. They had scarce installed themselves ere several knocks, dealt in a peculiar fashion, were heard on the outer door.

[1]In order to protect themselves from the misfortunes which had before crushed them, the Mexicans placed themselves under the safeguard of the King of Azcapotzalco, on whose lands they had established themselves. This prince gave them two of his sons as governors, of whom the first was Acamapuhtli, chief of the Tenochcas. On their arrival in Ahanuec, these Indians had found on the summit of a rock a nopal, in which was an eagle devouring a serpent, and they took their name from it. Acamapuhtli selected this emblem as thetotemof the race he was called upon to govern. During the War of Independence, the insurgents adopted this hieroglyphic as the arms of the Mexican Republic, in memory of the ancient and glorious origin of which it reminded them.

[2]See the "Indian Chief." Same publishers.

[3]This second volcano, whose name indicates "The Smoking Mountain," is near the former.

In one of our previous works we proved by documentary evidence that, since the declaration of its independence, that is to say, in about forty years, Mexico has reached its two hundred and thirtieth revolution which gives an average of about five revolutions a year. In our opinion, this is very decent for a country which, if it pleased, regard being had to the retrograde measures adopted by the government, would have been justified in having at least one a month.

The causes of these revolutions are and must be ever the same in a country where the sabre rules without control, and which countstwenty-fourthousand officers for an army of twenty thousand men. These officers, very ignorant generally, and very ambitious individually, incapable of executing the slightest manoeuvre, or commanding the most simple movement, find in the general disorder chances of promotion which they would not otherwise have, and many Mexican generals have attained their elevated rank without having once been present at a battle, or even seen any other fire than that of the cigarettes they constantly have in their mouths. The real truth is, they have skilfully pronounced themselves; eachpronunciamientohas gained them a step, sometimes two, and with pronunciamiento after pronunciamiento, they have acquired the general's scarf, that is to say, the probability, with the aid of luck, of being in their turn proclaimed President of the Republic, which is the dream of all of them, and the constant object of their efforts.

We have said that the travellers had scarce time to conceal themselves in the bar, ere several knocks on the door warned the landlord that the mysterious guests he expected were beginning to arrive.

Ño Lusacho was a fat little man, with constantly rolling gray eyes, a cunning look, and a prominent stomach—the true type of the Mexican Ranchero, who is more eager for gain than two Jews, and very ready when circumstances demand it, that is to say, when his own interests are concerned, to make a bargain with his conscience. He assured himself by a glance that all was in order in the room, and that there was nothing to cause the presence of strangers to be suspected, and then walked to the door; but, before opening, with the probable intention of displaying his zeal, he thought it advisable to challenge the arrivals.

"¿Quién vive?" he asked.

"Gente de paz!" a rough voice answered; "open in the Fiend's name, if you do not wish us to break in your door."

Ño Lusacho doubtless recognized the voice, for the somewhat brusque response appeared to him sufficient, and he immediately prepared to draw back the bolts.

The door was hardly ajar ere several men burst into the inn, thrusting each other aside in their haste, as if afraid of being followed. These men were seven or eight in number; and it was easy to see they were officers, in spite of the precaution of some among them who had put on civilian attire.

They laughed and jested loudly, which proved that, if they were conspirators, or, at least, if they were brought to this ill-famed den by any illicit object, that object, whatever it might be, did not spoil their gaiety or appear to them of sufficient importance to render them unwontedly serious.

They seated themselves at a table, and the landlord, who had doubtless long been acquainted with their habits, placed before them a bottle of Catalonian refino and a jug of pulque, which they straightway began swallowing while rolling their cigarettes.

The door of the rancho had been left ajar by the landlord, who probably thought it unnecessary to close it; the officers succeeded each other with great rapidity, and their number soon became so great, that the room, though very spacious, was completely filled. The newcomers followed the example of those who had preceded them; they seated themselves at a table, and began drinking and smoking, not appearing to trouble themselves about the earlier comers, to whom they merely bowed as they entered.

As for Ño Lusacho, he continually prowled round the tables, watching everything with a corner of his eyes, and being careful not to serve the slightest article without receiving immediate payment. At length one of the officers rose, and, after rapping his glass on the table several times to attract attention, he asked—

"Is Don Sirven here?"

"Yes, señor," a young man of twenty at the most answered as he rose. His effeminate features were already worn by precocious debauchery.

"Assure yourself that no person is absent."

The young man bowed, and began walking from one table to the other, exchanging two or three words in a low voice with each of the visitors. When Don Sirven had gone round the room, he went to the person who had addressed him, and said with a respectful bow—

"Señor coronel, the meeting is complete, and only one person is absent; but as he did not tell us certainly whether he would do us the honour of being present tonight, I——"

"That will do, alférez," the colonel interrupted him; "remain outside the house, carefully watch the environs, and let no one approach without challenging him, but if you know who arrives, introduce him immediately. You have heard me, so execute my orders punctually; you understand the importance of passive obedience for yourself."

"You can trust to me, coronel," the young man answered; and, after bowing to his superior officer, he left the room and closed the door behind him.

The officers, then, without getting up, turned round on the benches, and thus found themselves face to face with the colonel, who had stationed himself in the middle of the room. The latter waited a few minutes till perfect silence was established, and then, after bowing to the audience, he spoke as follows;—

"Let me, in the first place, thank you, caballeros, for the punctuality with which you have responded to the meeting I had the honour of arranging with you. I am delighted at the confidence it has pleased you to display in me, and, believe me, I shall show myself worthy of it; for it proves to me once again that you are really devoted to the interests of our country, and that it may freely reckon on you in the hour of danger."

This first portion of the colonel's speech was drowned in applause, as was only fitting. This colonel was a man of about forty years of age, of herculean stature, and looking more like a butcher than an honest soldier. His cunning looks did not at all inspire confidence, and every step in his profession had been the reward of an act of treachery. He was a most valuable man in a conspiracy on this account, for being so old a hand at pronunciamientos, people knew that he was too clever to join a losing cause; hence, he inspired his accomplices with unlimited confidence. After allowing time for the enthusiasm to calm, he continued—

"I am pleased, señores, not at this applause, but at the devotion you so constantly display for the public welfare. You understand as well as I do that we can no longer bow our necks beneath the despotic government that tyrannizes over us. The man who at this moment holds our destinies in his hands has shown himself unworthy of the mandate we confided to him; by failing in his duties towards us, he has liberated us from the oath of obedience we took to him. Human patience has its limits, and the hour will soon strike for the man who has deceived us to be overthrown."

The colonel had made a start, and would probably have continued his plausible speech for a long time in an emphatic voice, had not one of his audience, evidently wearied of finding nothing positive or clear in this flood of sounding words, suddenly interrupted him—

"That is all very fine, colonel," he said, "Rayo de Dios!we are all aware that we are gentlemen devoted, body and soul, to our country; but devotion must be paid for,cuerpo de Cristo!What shall we get by all this after all? We have not assembled here to compliment each other; but, on the contrary, to come to a definite understanding. So pray come to the point at once."

The colonel was at first slightly embarrassed by this warm apostrophe; but he recovered himself at once, and turned with a smile to his interrupter—

"I was coming to it, my dear captain, at the very moment when you cut across my speech."

"Oh, that is different," the captain answered; "pray suppose that I had not spoken, and explain the affair in a couple of words."

"In the first place," the colonel went on, "I have news for you which I feel assured you will heartily welcome. This is the last time we shall meet."

"Very good," said the practical captain, encouraged by the winks of his companions, "let us hear first what the reward is."

The colonel saw that he could no longer dally with the matter, for all his hearers openly took part with their comrade, and murmurs of evil augury were beginning to be audible. At the moment when he resolved to tell all he knew, the door of the inn was opened, and a man wrapped in a large cloak quickly entered the room, preceded by the Alferez Don Sirven, who shouted in a loud voice—

"The general. Caballeros, the general."

At this announcement silence was re-established as if by enchantment. The person called the general stopped in the middle of the room, looked around him, and then took off his hat, let his cloak fall from his shoulders, and appeared in the full-dress uniform of a general officer.

"Long live General Guerrero!" the officers shouted, as they rose enthusiastically.

"Thanks, gentlemen, thanks," the general responded with numerous bows. "This warm feeling fills me with delight; but pray be silent, that we may properly settle the matter which has brought us here; moments are precious, and, in spite of the precautions we have taken, our presence at this inn may have been denounced."

All collected round the general with a movement of interest easy to understand. The latter continued—

"I will come at once to facts," he said, "without entering into idle speculations, which would cause us to waste valuable time. In a word, then, what is it we want? To overthrow the present government, and establish another more in conformity with our opinions and, above all, our interests."

"Yes, yes," the officers exclaimed.

"In that case we are conspiring against the established authority, and are rebels in the eyes of the law," the general continued coolly and distinctly; "as such, we stake our heads, and must not attempt any self-deception on this point. If our attempt fails, we shall be pitilessly shot by the victor; but we shall not fail," he hastily added, on noticing the impression these ill-omened words produced on his hearers; "we shall not fail, because we are resolutely playing a terrible game, and each of us knows that his fortune depends on winning the game. From the alférez up to the brigadier-general each knows that success will gain him two steps of promotion, and such a stake is sufficient to determine the least resolute to be staunch when the moment arrives to begin the struggle."

"Yes, yes," the captain whose observations had, previous to the general's arrival, so greatly embarrassed the colonel, said, "all that is very fine. Jumping up two steps is a most agreeable thing; but we were promised something else in your name, excellency."

The general smiled.

"You are right, captain," he remarked; "and I intend to keep all promises made in my name—but not, as you might reasonably suppose, when our glorious enterprise has succeeded. If I waited till then, you might fear lest I should seek pretexts and excuses to evade their performance."

"When then, pray?" the captain asked, curiously.

"At once, señores," the general exclaimed, in a loud voice, and, addressing the whole company, "I wish to prove to you that my confidence in you is entire, and that I put faith in the word you pledged to me."

Joy, astonishment, incredulity, perhaps, so paralyzed his hearers, that they were unable to utter a syllable. The general examined them for a moment, and then, turning away with a mocking smile, he walked to the front door, which he opened. The officers eagerly watched his movements, with panting chests, and the general, after looking out, coughed twice.

"Here I am, excellency," a voice said, issuing from the fog.

"Bring in the bags," Don Sebastian ordered, and then quietly returned to the middle of the room.

Almost immediately after a man entered, bearing a heavy leather saddlebag. It was Carnero, the capataz. At a signal from his master, he deposited his bundle and went out; but returned shortly after with another bag, which he placed by the side of the first one. Then, after bowing to his master, he withdrew, and the door closed upon him.

The general opened the bags, and a flood of gold poured in a trickling cascade on the table; the officers instinctively bent forward, and held out their quivering hands.

"Now, señores," the general said, still perfectly calm, as he carelessly rested his arm on the pile of gold; "permit me to remind you of our agreement; there are thirty-five of us at present, I believe?"

"Yes, general, thirty-five," the captain replied, who seemed to have appointed himself speaker in ordinary for self and partners.

"Very good; these thirty-five caballeros are thus subdivided:—ten alférez, who will each receive twenty-five ounces of silver. Señor Don Jaime Lupo," he said, turning to the colonel, "will you be kind enough to hand twenty-five ounces to each of these gentlemen?"

The alférez, or sub-lieutenants, broke through the ranks, and boldly came up to receive the ounces, which the colonel delivered to each of them; then they fell back with a delight they did not attempt to conceal.

"Now," the general continued, "twelve captains, to each of whom I wish you to offer, on my behalf, Don Lupo, fifty ounces."

The captains pocketed the money with no more ceremony than the alférez had displayed.

"We have ten tenientes, each of whom is to receive thirty-five ounces, I believe?"

The tenientes, or lieutenants, who had begun to frown on seeing the captains paid before them, received their money with a bow.

"There now remain three colonels, each of whom has a claim to one hundred ounces," the general said; "be kind enough to pay them, my dear colonel."

The latter did not let the invitation be repeated twice. Still the entire pile of gold was not exhausted, and a considerable sum still remained on the table. Don Sebastian Guerrero passed his hands several times through the glittering metal, and at length thrust it from him.

"Señores," he said, with an engaging smile, "about five hundred ounces remain, which I do not know what to do with; may I ask you to divide them among you, as subsistence money while awaiting the signal you are to receive from me."

At this truly regal act of munificence, the enthusiasm attained its highest pitch; the cries and protestations of devotion became frenzied. The general alone remained impassive, and looked coldly at the division made by the colonel.

"When all the gold had disappeared, and the effervescence was beginning to subside, Don Sebastian, who, like the Angel of Evil, had looked with a profoundly mocking smile at these men so utterly under the influence of cupidity, slightly tapped the table, to request silence.

"Señores," he said, "I have kept all my promises, and have acquired the right to count on you; we shall not meet again, but at a future day I will let you know my intentions. Still be ready to act at the first signal; in ten days is the anniversary festival of the Proclamation of Independence, and, if nothing deranges my plans, I shall probably choose that day to try, with your assistance, to deliver the country from the tyrants who oppress it. However, I will be careful to have you warned. So now let us separate; the night is far advanced, and a longer stay at this spot might compromise the sacred interests for which we have sworn to die."

He bowed to the conspirators, but, on reaching the door, turned round again.

"Farewell, señores," he said, "be faithful to me."

"We will die for you, general," Colonel Lupo answered, in the name of all.

The general gave a final bow and went out; almost immediately the hoofs of several horses could be heard echoing on the paved street.

"As we have nothing more to do here, caballeros," the colonel said, "we had better separate without further delay; but do not forget the general's parting recommendation."

"Oh, no," the captain said, gleefully rattling the gold, with which his pockets were filled. "Don Sebastian Guerrero is too generous for us not to be faithful to him; besides, he appears to me at the present moment the only man capable of saving our unhappy country from the abyss. We are all too deeply attached to our country and too devoted to its real interests, not to sacrifice ourselves for it, when circumstances demand it."

The conspirators laughingly applauded this speech of the captain's, and after exchanging courteous bows, they withdrew as they had come; that is to say, they left the inn one after the other, not to attract attention. They carefully wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and went off in parties of three and four, with their hands on their weapons, for fear of any unpleasant encounter.

A quarter of an hour later, the room was empty, and the landlord bolted the door for the night.

"Well, señores," he asked the two strangers, who now left the hiding place in which they had been crouching for upwards of two hours, "are you satisfied?"

"We could not be more so," replied the one who had been the sole speaker hitherto.

"Yes, yes," the landlord continued, "three or four more pronunciamientos, and I believe I shall be able to retire on a decent competency."

"That is what I wish you, Ño Lusacho, and, to begin, a thing promised is a thing done; here are your ten ounces."

Mexico is a country of extensive prospects and magnificent views; and the poet Carpio is right when he says enthusiastically, in the poem in which he sings the praises of his country—

"Qué magníficos tienes horizontes!"

In truth, the prospect is the first and greatest beauty of Mexico.

The plateau of Mexico is situated exactly in the centre of a circle of mountains. On all sides the landscape is bounded by admirable peaks, whose snowy crests soar above the clouds, and in the golden beams of the setting sun they offer the most sublime pictures of the imposing and grand Alpine nature.

In the general description we attempted of Mexico we omitted to allude to its promenades, of which we intended previously to give a detailed account.

In Europe, and especially in France, promenades are wanting in the interior of towns; and it is only during the last few years that Paris has possessed any worthy of a capital. In Spain, on the contrary, the smallest market town has at least one alameda, where, after the torrid heat of the day, the inhabitants breathe the evening breeze, and rest from their labours. Alameda, a soft and graceful word to pronounce, which we might be tempted to take for Arabic, and to which some ill-informed scholars, unacquainted with Spanish, attribute a Latin origin, while it is simply Castilian, and literally signifies "a place planted with poplars."

The Alameda of Mexico is one of the most beautiful in America. It is situated at one of the extremities of the city, and forms a long square, with a wall of circumvallation bordered by a deep ditch, whose muddy, fetid waters, owing to the negligence of the government, exhale pestilential miasmas. At each corner of the promenade a gate offers admission to carriages, riders, and pedestrians, who walk silently beneath a thick awning of verdure, formed by willows, elms, and poplars that border the principal road. These trees are selected with great tact, and are always green, for although the leaves are renewed, it takes place gradually and imperceptibly, so that the branches are never entirely stripped of their foliage.

Numerous walks converge to open spots adorned with gushing fountains, and clumps of jessamine, myrtle, and rose bushes, surrounded by stone benches for the tired promenaders. Statues, unfortunately far below mediocrity in their execution, stand at the entrance of each walk; but, thanks to the deep shadow, the whistling of the evening breeze in the foliage, the buzz of the hummingbirds flying from flower to flower, and the harmonious strains of the cenzontles hidden in the fragrant clumps, you gradually forget those unlucky statues, and fall into a gentle reverie, during which the mind is borne to unknown regions, and seems no longer connected with earth.

But Mexico is a thorough country of contrasts. At each step barbarism elbows the most advanced civilization. Hence all the carriages, after driving a few times round the Alameda, take the direction of the Paseo de Bucareli, and the promenaders spread over a walk, in the Centre of which there is a large window in the Wall, protected by rusty iron bars, and through which come puffs of poisoned air. It is the window of the Deadhouse, into which are daily thrown pell-mell the bodies of men, women, and children, assassinated during the previous night, hideous, bloody, and disfigured by death! What a brilliant, what a delicious idea, to have placed the Deadhouse exactly between the two city walks!

The Paseo, or promenade, of Bucareli—so called after the Viceroy who gave it to Mexico—resembles the Champs Elysées of Paris. It is, in reality, merely a wide road, with no other ornament than a double row of willow and beech trees, with two circular places, in the centre of which are fountains, adorned with detestable allegorical statues and stone benches for pedestrians.

At the entrance of the Paseo de Bucareli has been placed an equestrian statue of Charles IV., which in 1824 adorned the Plaza Mayor of Mexico. When the Emperor Iturbide fell, this monument was removed from the square and placed in the University Palace yard—a lesson, we may here remark, given by a comparatively barbarous people to civilized nations, who in revolutions, as a first trial of liberty, and forgetting that history records everything in her imperishable annals, carry their Vandalism so far as to destroy everything that recalls the government they have overthrown. Owing to the intelligent moderation of the Mexicans, the promenaders can still admire, at the Bucareli, this really remarkable statue, due to the talent of the Spanish sculptor, Manuel Tolsa, and cast in one piece by Salvador de la Vega. The sight of this masterpiece ought to induce the Mexican municipality to remove the pitiable statues which disgrace the two finest promenades in the city.

From the Paseo de Bucareli a magnificent prospect is enjoyed of the panorama of mountains bathed in the luminous vapours of night; you perceive, through the arches of the gigantic aqueduct the white fronts of the haciendas clinging to the sides of the Sierra, the fields of Indian corn bending softly before the breeze, and the snowy peaks of the volcanoes, crowned with mist, and lost in the sky.

It is not till night has almost set in that the promenaders, leaving the Alameda, proceed to the Bucareli, where the carriages take two or three turns, and then equipages, riders, and pedestrians, retire one after the other. The promenade is deserted, the entire crowd, just now so gay and noisy, has disappeared as if by enchantment, and you only see between the trees some belated promenader, who, wrapped in his cloak, and with eye and ear on the watch, is hastily returning home, for, after nightfall, the thieves take possession of the promenade, and without the slightest anxiety about the serenos and celadores appointed to watch over the public security, they carry on their trade with a boldness which the certainty of impunity can alone engender.

It was evening, and, as usual, the Alameda was crowded; handsome carriages, brilliant riders, and modest pedestrians were moving backwards and forwards, with cries, laughter, and joyous calls, as they sought or chased each other in the walks. Monks, soldiers, officers, men of fashion, and leperos, were mixed together, carelessly smoking their cigars and cigarettes under each other's noses, with the recklessness and negligence peculiar to southern nations.

Suddenly, the first stroke of the Oración broke through the air. At the sound of the Angelus-bell, as if the entire crowd had been struck by an enchanter's wand, horses, carriages, and pedestrians stopped, the seated citizens left the benches on which they were resting, and a solemn silence fell on all; every person took off his hat, crossed himself, and for four or five minutes this crowd, an instant before so noisy, remained dumb and silent. But the last stroke of the Oración had scarce died away, ere horses and carriages set out again; the shouts, the songs, and talking, became louder than before; each resumed the sentence at the point where he had broken it off.

By degrees, however, the promenaders proceeded toward the Bucareli: the carriages became scarcer, and by the time night had quite set in, the Alameda was completely deserted.

A horseman, dressed in a rich Campesino costume, and mounted on a magnificent horse, which he managed with rare skill, then entered the Alameda, along which he galloped for about twenty minutes, examining the sidewalks, the clumps of trees, and the densest bushes: in a word, he seemed to be looking for somebody or something.

However, after a while, whether he had convinced himself that his search would have no result, or for some other motive, he gave the click of the tongue peculiar to the Mexican jinetes, lifted his horse which started at an amble, and proceeded toward the Paseo de Bucareli, after bowing sarcastically to some ill-looking horsemen who were beginning to prowl round him, but whom his vigorous appearance and haughty demeanour had hitherto kept at arm's length.

Although the darkness was too dense at this moment for it to be possible to see the horseman's face distinctly, which was in addition half covered by the brim of his vicuna hat, all about him evidenced strength and youth; he was armed as if for a nocturnal expedition, and had on his saddle, in spite of police regulations, a thin, carefully rolled up reata.

We will say, parenthetically, that the reata is considered in Mexico so dangerous a weapon, that it requires special permission to carry one at the saddle-bow, in the streets of Mexico.

The salteadores, who occupy the streets after nightfall, and reign with undisputed sway over them, employ no other weapon to stop the persons they wish to plunder. They cast the running knot round their necks, dash forward at full speed, and the unlucky man, half strangled, and dragged from the saddle, falls unresistingly into their hands.

At the moment when the traveller we are following reached the Bucareli, the last carriages were leaving it, and it was soon as deserted as the Alameda. He galloped up and down the promenade twice or thrice, looking carefully down the side rides, and at the end of his third turn a horseman, coming from the Alameda, passed on his right hand, giving him in a low voice the Mexican salute, "Santísima noche, caballero!"

Although this sentence had nothing peculiar about it, the horseman started, and immediately turning his horse round, he started in pursuit of the person who had thus greeted him. Within a minute the two horsemen were side by side; the first comer, so soon as he saw that he was followed, checked his horse's pace, as if with the intention of entering into the most direct communication with the person he had addressed.

"A fine night for a ride, señor," the first horseman said, politely raising his hand to his hat.

"It is," the second answered, "although it is beginning to grow late."

"The moment is only the better chosen for certain private conversation."

The second horseman looked around, and bending over to the speaker, said—

"I almost despaired of meeting you."

"Did I not let you know that I should come?"

"That is true; but I feared that some sudden obstacle——"

"Nothing ought to impede an honest man in accomplishing a sacred duty," the first horseman answered, with an emphasis on the words.

"The other bowed with an air of satisfaction. Then," he said, "I can count on you, Ño ——."

"No names here, señor," the other sharply interrupted him. "Caspita, an old wood ranger like you, a man who has long been a Tigrero, ought to remember that the trees have ears and the leaves eyes."

"Yes, you are right. I should and do remember it; but permit me to remark that if it is not possible for us to talk about business here, I do not know exactly where we can do so."

"Patience, señor, I wish to serve you, as you know, for you were recommended to me by a man to whom I can refuse nothing. Let yourself, therefore, be guided by me, if you wish us to succeed in this affair, which, I confess to you at once, offers enormous difficulties, and must be managed with the greatest prudence."

"I ask nothing better; still you must tell me what I ought to do."

"For the present very little; merely follow me at a distance to the place where I purpose taking you."

"Are we going far?"

"Only a few paces; behind the barracks of the Acordades, in a small street called the Callejón del Pájaro."

"Hum! and what am I to do in this street?"

"What a suspicious man you are!" the first horseman said with a laugh. "Listen to me then. About the middle of the Callejón I shall stop before a house of rather poor appearance; a man will come and hold my horse while I enter. A few minutes later you will pull up there; after assuring yourself that you are not followed you will dismount; give your horse to the man who is holding mine, and without saying a word to him, or letting him see your face, you will enter the house, and shut the door after you. I shall be in the yard, and will lead you to a place where we shall be able to talk in safety. Does that suit you?"

"Famously; although I do not understand why I, who have set foot in Mexico today for the first time, should find it necessary to employ such mighty precautions."

The first horseman laughed sarcastically.

"Do you wish to succeed?" he asked.

"Of course," the other exclaimed energetically, "even if it cost me my life."

"In that case do as you are recommended."

"Go on, I follow you."

"Is that settled? you understand all about it?"

"I do."

The second horseman then checked his steed to let the first one go on ahead, and both keeping a short distance apart, proceeded at a smart trot toward the statue of Charles IV., which, as we said, stands at the entrance of the Paseo.

While conversing, the two horsemen had forgotten the advanced hour of the night, and the solitude that surrounded them. At the moment when the first rider passed the equestrian statue, a slip knot fell on his shoulders, and he was roughly dragged from his saddle.

"Help!" he shouted in a choking voice.

The second rider had seen all; quick as thought he whirled his lasso round his head, and galloping at full speed, hurled it after the Salteador at the moment when he passed twenty yards from him.

The Salteador was stopped dead, and hurled from his horse; the worthy robber had not suspected that another person beside himself could have a lasso so handy. The horseman, without checking his speed, cut the reata that was strangling his companion, and, turning back, dragged the robber after him.

The first horseman so providentially saved, freed himself from the slip knot that choked him, and, hardly recovered from the alarm he had experienced from his heavy fall, he whistled to his horse, which came up at once, remounted as well as he could, and rejoined his liberator, who had stopped a short distance off.

"Thanks," he said to him, "henceforth we are stanch friends; you have saved my life, and I shall remember it."

"Nonsense," the other answered, "I only did what you would have done in my place."

"That is possible, but I shall be grateful to you on the word of a Carnero," he exclaimed, forgetting in his joy the hint he had given a short time previously, not to make use of names, and revealing his own incognito; "is the pícaro dead?"

"Very nearly so, I fancy; what shall we do with him?"

"Make a corpse of him," the capataz said bluntly. "We are only two paces from the deadhouse, and he can be carried there without difficulty. Though he is an utter scoundrel and tried to assassinate me, the police are so well managed in our unhappy country that if we committed the imprudence of letting him live, we should have interminable disputes with the magistrates."

Then, dismounting, he stooped over the bandit, stretched senseless at his feet, removed his lasso, and coolly dashed out his brains with a blow of his pistol butt. Immediately after this summary execution, the two men left the Paseo de Bucareli, but this time side by side, through fear of a new accident.

Directly on emerging from the Paseo, the two men separated, as had been agreed on between them; that is to say, the capataz went ahead, followed at a respectful distance by Martial the Tigrero, whom the reader has doubtless recognized.

All happened as the capataz had announced. The streets were deserted, the horsemen only met a few half sleeping serenos leaning against the walls, and were only crossed by a patrol of celadores walking with a hurried step, and who seemed more inclined to avoid them, than to try and discover the motives that caused them thus to ride about the streets of the capital at night, in defiance of the law.

The Tigrero entered the Callejón del Pájaro, and about the middle of the street saw the capataz's horse held by an ill-looking fellow, who gazed curiously at him. Don Martial, following the instructions given him, pulled his hat over his eyes to foil the mozo's curiosity, stopped before the door, dismounted, threw his bridle to the fellow, and, without saying a word to him, resolutely entered the house and carefully closed the door after him.

He then found himself in utter darkness, but after groping his way, which was not difficult for him to do, as all Mexican houses are built nearly on the same model, he pushed forward. After crossing the zaguán, he entered a square yard on which several doors looked; one of these doors was open, and a man was standing on the threshold with a cigarette in his mouth. It was Carnero.

The tiger-slayer went up to him; the other made room, and he walked on. The capataz took him by the hand and whispered, "Come with me."

In spite of the protestations of devotion previously made by the capataz, the Tigrero in his heart was somewhat alarmed at the manner in which he was introduced into this mysterious house; but as he was young, vigorous, well armed, brave, and resolved, if necessary, to sell his life dearly, he yielded his hand Unhesitatingly to Carnero, and allowed him to guide him while seeking to pierce the darkness that surrounded him.

But all the windows were hermetically closed with shutters, which allowed no gleam of light to enter from without.

His guide led him through several rooms, the floors of which were covered with matting that deadened the sound of footsteps; he took him up a flight of stairs, and opening a door with a key he took from his pocket, conducted him into a room faintly lighted by a lamp placed before a statue of the Virgin, standing in one corner of the room, on a species of pedestal attached to the wall, and covered with extremely delicate lace.

"Now," said Carnero, after closing the door, from which the Tigrero noticed that he removed the key, "draw up a butaca, sit down and let us talk, for we are in safety." Don Martial followed the advice given him, and after carefully installing himself in a butaca, looked anxiously around him.

The room in which he found himself was rather spacious, furnished tastefully and richly; several valuable pictures hung on the walls, which were covered with embossed leather, while the furniture consisted of splendid carved ebony or mahogany tables, sideboards, chiffonniers, and butacas. On the floor was an Indian petate, several books were scattered over the tables, and valuable plate was arranged on the sideboard. In short, this room displayed a proper comprehension of comfort, and the two windows, with their Moorish jalousies, gave admission to the pure breeze which greatly refreshed the atmosphere.

The capataz lighted two candles at the Virgin's lamp, placed them on the table, and then fetching two bottles and two silver cups, which he placed before the Tigrero, he drew up a butaca, and seated himself opposite his guest.

"Here is sherry which I guarantee to be real Xeres de los Caballeros; this other bottle contains chinquirito, and both are at your service," he said, with a laugh; "whether you have a weakness for sugar cane spirits, or prefer wine."

"Thanks," Don Martial replied, "but I do not feel inclined to drink."

"You would not wish to insult me by refusing to hobnob with me?"

"Very well; if you will permit me, I will take a few drops of chinquirito in water, solely to prove to you that I am sensible of your politeness."

"All right," the capataz continued, as he handed him a crystal decanter, covered with curiously worked silver filagree; "help yourself."

When they had drunk, the capataz a glass of sherry, which he sipped like a true amateur, and Don Tigrero a few drops of chinquirito drowned in a glass of water, the capataz placed his glass again on the table with a smack of his lips, and said—

"Now, I must give you a few words in explanation of the slightly mysterious way in which I brought you here, in order to dispel any doubts which may have involuntarily invaded your mind."

"I am listening to you," the Tigrero answered.

"Take a cigar first, they are excellent." And he lit one, after pushing the bundle over to Don Martial: the latter selected one, and soon the two men were enveloped in a cloud of thin and fragrant smoke.

"We are in the mansion of General Don Sebastian Guerrero," the capataz continued.

"What?" the Tigrero exclaimed, with a start of uneasiness.

"Re-assure yourself, no one saw you enter, and your presence here is quite unknown, for the simple reason that I brought you in by my private entrance."

"I do not understand you."

"And yet it is very easy to explain; the house I led you through belongs to me. For reasons too long to tell you, and which would interest you but slightly, during Don Sebastian's absence as Governor of Sonora, I had a passage made, and established a communication between my house and this mansion. Everybody save myself is ignorant of the existence of this communication, which," he added, with a glowing smile, "may at a given moment be of great utility to me. The room in which we now are forms part of the suite I occupy in the mansion, in which the general, I am proud to say, has never yet set foot. The man who took your horse is devoted to me, and even were he to betray me, it would be of little consequence to me, for the secret door of the passage is so closely concealed that I have no fear of its being discovered. Hence you see that you have nothing to fear here, where your presence is unknown."

"But suppose you were to be sent for, through the general happening to want you suddenly?"

"Certainly, but I have foreseen that; it is my system never to leave anything to chance. Although it has never happened yet, no one can enter here without my being informed soon enough to get rid of any person who may be with me, supposing that, for some reason or another, that person did not desire to be seen."

"That is capitally arranged, and I am happy to see that you are a man of prudence."

"Prudence is, as you know, señor, the mother of safety; and in Mexico, before all other countries, the proverb receives its application at every moment."

The Tigrero bowed politely, but in the fashion of a man who considers that the speaker has dwelt sufficiently long on one subject, and wishes to see him pass to another. The capataz appeared to read this almost imperceptible hint on Don Martial's face, and continued with a smile—

"But enough on that head, so let us pass, if you have no objection, to the real purpose of our interview. A man, whose name it is unnecessary to mention, but to whom, as I have already had the honour of telling you, I am devoted body and soul, sent you to me to obtain certain information you require, and which he supposes I am in a position to give, I will now add, that what passed between us this evening, and the generous way in which you rushed to my assistance, render it my bounden duty not only to give you this information, but also to help you with all my might in the success of the projects you are meditating, whatever those projects may be, and the dangers I may incur in aiding you. So, now speak openly with me; conceal nothing from me and you will only have to praise my frankness towards you."

"Señor," the Tigrero answered, with considerable emotion, "I thank you the more heartily for your generous offer, for you know as well as I do what perils are connected with the carrying out of these plans, to say nothing of their success."

"What you are saying is true, but it will be better, I fancy, for the present, for me to assume to be ignorant of them, so as to leave you the entire liberty you need for the questions you have to ask me."

"Yes, yes," he said, shaking his head sadly, "my position is so precarious, the struggle I am engaged in is so wild, that, although I am supported by sincere friends, I cannot be too prudent. Tell me, then, what you know as to the fate of the unfortunate Doña Anita de Torrés. Is she really dead, as the report spread alleged?"

"Do you know what happened in the cavern after your fall down the precipice?"

"Alas! no; my ignorance is complete as to the facts that occurred after I was abandoned as dead."

Carnero reflected for a moment. "Listen, Don Martial: before I can answer categorically the question you have asked me, I must tell you a long story. Are you ready to hear it?"

"Yes," the other answered, without hesitation, "for there are many things I am ignorant of, which I ought to know. So speak without further delay, señor, and though some parts of the narrative will be most painful to me, hide nothing from me, I implore you!"

"You shall be obeyed. Moreover, the night is not yet far advanced; time does not press us, and in two hours you will know all."

"I am impatiently waiting for you to begin."

The capataz remained for some considerable time plunged in deep and serious reflection. At length he raised his head, leant forward, and setting his left elbow on the table, began as follows:—

"At the time when the facts occurred I am about to tell you, I was living at the Hacienda del Palmar, of which I was steward. Hence I was only witness to a portion of the facts, and only know the rest from hearsay. When the Comanches arrived, guided by the white men, Don Sylva de Torrés was lying mortally wounded, holding in his stiffened arms his daughter Anita, who had suddenly gone mad on seeing you roll down the precipice in the grasp of the Indian chief. Don Sebastian Guerrero was the only relation left to the hapless young lady, and hence she was taken to his hacienda."

"What?" Don Martial exclaimed in surprise. "Don Sebastian is a relation of Doña Anita?"

"Did you not know that?"

"I had not the slightest idea of it; and yet I had for several years been closely connected with the Torrés family, for I was their tigrero."

"I know it. Well, this is how the relationship exists: Don Sebastian married a niece of Don Sylva's, so you see they were closely connected. Still, for reasons never thoroughly made known, a few years after the general's marriage, a dispute broke out which led to a total suspension of intimacy between the two families. That is probably the reason why you never heard of the connection existing between the Sylvas and the Torrés."

The Tigrero shook his head. "Go on," he said. "How did the general receive his relation?"

"He was not at the hacienda at the time; but an express was sent off to him, and I was the man. The general came post haste, seemed greatly moved at the double misfortune that had befallen the young lady, gave orders for her to be kindly treated, appointed several women to wait on her, and returned to his post at Sonora, where events of the utmost gravity summoned him."

"Yes, yes, I have heard of the French invasion, and that their leader was shot by the general's orders. I presume you are alluding to that?"

"Yes. Almost immediately after these events the general returned to the Palmar. He was no longer the same man. The horrible death of his daughter rendered him gloomier and harsher to any person whom chance brought into contact with him. For a whole week he remained shut up in his apartments, refusing to see any of us; but, at last, one day he sent for me to inquire as to what had happened at the hacienda during his absence. I had but little to tell him, for life was too simple and uniform at this remote dwelling for anything at all interesting for him to have occurred. Still he listened without interruption, with his head in his hands, and apparently taking great interest in what I told him, especially when it referred to poor Doña Anita, whose gentle interesting madness drew tears from us rough men, when we saw her wandering, pale and white as a spectre, about the huerta, murmuring in a low voice one name, ever the same, which none of us could overhear, and raising to heaven her lovely face, bathed in tears. The general let me say all I had to say, and when I ended he, too, remained silent for some time. At length, raising his head, he looked at me for a moment angrily."

"'What are you doing there?' he asked."

"'I am waiting,' I answered, 'for the orders it may please your excellency to give me.'"

"He looked at me for a few more moments as if trying to read my very thoughts, and then laid his hand on my arm. 'Carnero,' he said to me, 'you have been a long time in my service, but take care lest I should have to dismiss you. I do not like,' he said, with a stress on the words, 'servants who are too intelligent and too clear-sighted,' and when I tried to excuse myself, he added, 'Not a word—profit by the advice I have given you, and now lead me to Doña Anita's apartments.'"

"I obeyed with hanging head; the general remained an hour with the young lady, and I never knew what was said between them. It is true that now and then I heard the general speaking loudly and angrily, and Doña Anita weeping, and apparently making some entreaty to him; but that was all, for prudence warned me to keep at too great a distance to overhear a single word. When the general came out he was pale, and sharply ordered me to prepare everything for his departure. The morrow at daybreak we set out for Mexico, and Doña Anita followed us, carried in a palanquin. The journey was a long one, but so long as it lasted the general did not once speak to the young lady, or approach the side of her palanquin. So soon as we reached our journey's end, Doña Anita was carried to the Convent of the Bernardines, where she had been educated, and the good sisters received her with tears of sorrowful sympathy. The general, owing to the influence he enjoyed, easily succeeded in getting himself appointed guardian to the young lady, and immediately assumed the management of her estates, which, as you doubtless are aware, are considerable, even in this country where large fortunes are so common."

"I know it," said the Tigrero, with a sigh.

"All these matters settled," the capataz continued, "the general returned to Sonora to arrange his affairs, and hand over the government to the person appointed to succeed him, and who started for his post some days previously. I will not tell you what happened then, as you know it; besides, we have only been back in Mexico for a fortnight, and you and your friends followed our track from the Rocky Mountains."

The Tigrero raised his head. "Is that really all?" he asked.

"Yes," the capataz answered.

"On your honour?" Don Martial added, looking fixedly at him.

Carnero hesitated. "Well, no," he said at last, "there is something else I must tell you."

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