Tiburcio flung up his hand in a gesture of assent, and his ugly features relaxed. Though going at a brisk trot, he rolled a cigarette and lighted it. Then he told his story. Querétero? Ha, Querétero was now the Court, the Army, the Empire! Pious townsmen shouted “Viva el Señor Emperador!” all day long. The cafés were alive with uniforms and oaths and high play. Padres and friars shrived with ardor. There was the theatre. Fashion promenaded under the beautiful Alameda trees, and whispered the latest rumors of the Empress Carlota. Maximilian decorated the brave, and bestowed gold fringed standards. Then came Escobedo and his Legion del Norte, but they kept behind the hills. Bueno, the Empire would go forth and smite them, and the pious townspeople climbed to the housetops to see it done. And yesterday morning the Empire, with banners flying and clarion blasts, did march out and form in glittering battle array.
“And then, hombre?”
“And then the Empire marched back again, señores.”
Régules and Driscoll were stupefied. What gross idiocy–or treachery–had thrown away the Empire’s one magnificent chance?
Tiburcio sucked in his breath. “I curse––”
“Marquez?” cried Régules.
“Si señor, Marquez! Marquez cried out against the attack, and His Majesty ordered the troops back into town again.”
375“But Miramon, hombre? Miramon, the best among you, where was he?”
“General Miramon fairly begged to fight, but he has been defeated once, and now Marquez warns the Emperor against Miramon’s ‘imprudence.’ Marquez is chief of staff, and crows over Miramon, who was once his president. He personally ordered Miramon off the field, yet it was Miramon who first made the insolent little whelp into a general.”
“This,” said Driscoll, “does not explain why you desert to us?”