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."