"She threw back the gilded jalousies which guarded her window, and, smiling graciously, held out her hand, which he clasped with all the rapture of an infatuated lover.
"She was robed in soft, rose-colored India muslin, embroidered in white lilies, and over her breast and arms fell a cascade of lace, caught lightly over her raven tresses, in that graceful manner which the ladies of Spanish America wear the mantilla; gleaming through its filmy folds could be seen the rubies which burned in her hair.
"Within that flower-entwined balcony was re-enacted that tender scene—old as the dawn of creation, still ever new. How he told the tale, or how she answered, I can not say, but may readily surmise from the brilliant wedding which followed in the old cathedral a few months later.
"Bruce had become very popular with the young officers of our army, and I have often seen him riding about the city with McClellan, and—"
"What! not our 'Little Mac?'" cried Squire Moreland, springing to his feet, transformed into an impetuous soldier by the magic of a name, and while the others regarded him with amazement, as he paced back and forth with clenched hands, he continued in a tone of repressed vehemence: "If there is one name that would cause me to leap from the grave, it is that of 'Little Mac,' the Giant of Antietam; and, as there is a God above, I believe it was McClellan who led us to victory at Gettysburg. Oh, can I ever forget that terrible day when the host of Lee beat and broke in thunder over the hills like the ocean on a rocky shore, drenching our ranks in a surf of blood—when reckless Longstreet charged like a whirlwind through smoke and flame, while our columns staggered under the shock? The scream of countless shells and the stunning belch and roar of a thousand cannon mingled with the trample of the Southern cavalry as it hurled its squadrons upon us like the throes of an earthquake, their storm of rebel yells rising above the notes of Dixie and all the din of conflict with the roar of a hurricane. Oh, Heaven! how then we longed for one hour of 'Little Mac!' That day our Nation's fate trembled in the balance; a few more shocks and all would be lost; then this fierce army—another such the world has never seen—would sweep over the North like an avalanche! Every moment hurried myriads into eternity, wringing loving hearts and breaking many a home from Maine to Texas. But when the word, like an electric shock, flashed along our hopeless ranks, 'Little Mac has come,' can I ever, ever, forget the shout of delight that burst from the parched lips of threescore thousand men? the rapid rush of marching ranks as they hurried to death, shouting, 'Little Mac, Little Mac!' when squadrons flashed by to the cannon's mouth, shaking the earth with their thunders of that mighty name? Oh! the wild delight and glory of that hour, when the fierce but baffled hosts of Lee broke and fled! But at the battle's close they claimed that it was only a ruse, and that McClellan was not there. Yet I shall always believe he did lead us that day; but, unwilling to impair the laurels of Meade, he has kept silent all these years—only such a man is capable of that grand heroism. I have interrupted you, Colonel. Please excuse me, and proceed with your narrative."
After a moment's silence, the colonel said:
"Bruce Walraven was descended from a noble English family that had settled in New York in the earliest colonial days, but their fortunes had waned until himself and his sword were all that remained of that once powerful house. He was an orphan, who had graduated with honor at West Point Military Academy, and was utterly alone in the world, with no one to love but Ivarene and myself, yet no brothers could have been more deeply attached than we soon became to each other.
"I have never yet described him to you, from the fact that—that—Well, I feel a strange reluctance to say that Clifford, here, is the very image of that friend who died four years before my boy was born; but as I look at my son now, I almost fancy that Bruce is with me again, and that all my manhood's troubled years are only a fitful dream.
"Since his boyhood I have noticed Clifford's resemblance to Bruce, and as my boy grew older he seemed to almost take the place of my lost friend, which has resulted, you perceive, in a sort of companionship between us which leads strangers to take us for brothers, instead of father and son. But to my story again.
"The wedding-day dawned fair and serene, and at noon a company of young cadets from Chapultepec, all of whom were sons of the highest Mexican aristocracy, filed out on the avenue of cypresses that led to Monteluma, their snow-white horses trapped with gold and purple, and their steel helmets a mass of tossing plumes; their high top-boots of glossy black were embossed with gilt, and on the breasts of their white tunics the Mexican eagle flashed in silver, as two and two they galloped out to the great hacienda.