“Very well, go, bring it.”
The girl disappeared from the window; and in a few moments she returned with a glass, containing an amber-coloured liquid—the essence of the pine-apple. Making a sign towards L—, the little hand that held the class was thrust through the bars of the rejo into his hand. I rose, and taking the glass, I handed it to my friend. L— bowed to the window, and acknowledging his gratitude in the best Spanish he could muster, he drank off the contents. The glass was then returned; and the young girl took her station as before.
We did not enter into conversation,—neither L— nor myself; but I noticed that the incident had made an impression upon my friend. On the other hand, I observed the eyes of the girl, although at intervals wandering away, always return, and rest upon the features of my comrade.
L— was handsome; besides, he bore upon his person the evidence of a higher quality—courage; the quality that, before all others, will win the heart of a woman.
All at once, the features of the girl changed their expression, and she uttered a scream. Turning towards my friend, I saw the blood dripping through the sash. His wound had reopened.
I threw my arms around him, as several of the soldiers rushed forward; but before we could remove the bandage L— had swooned.
“May I beseech you to open the door?” said I, addressing the young girl and her father.
“Si—si, Señor,” cried they together, hurrying away from the window.
At that moment the rattle of musketry from Coyoacan, and the roar of field artillery, told us that Twigg was engaged. The long roll echoed through the streets, and the soldiers were speedily under arms.
I could stay no longer, for I had now to lead the company; so leaving L— in charge of two of the men, I placed myself at its head. As the “Forward” was given, I neared the great door swing upon its hinges; and looking back as we marched down the street, I saw my friend conducted into the house. I had no fears for his safety, as a regiment was to remain in the village... In ten minutes more I was upon the field of battle, and a red field it was. Of my own small detachment every second soldier “bit the dust” on the plain of Portales. I escaped unhurt, though my regiment was well peppered by our own artillerists from the tête du pont of Churubusco. In two hours we drove the enemy through the garita of San Antonio de Abad. It was a total rout; and we could have entered the city without firing another shot. We halted, however, before the gates—a fatal halt, that afterwards cost us nearly 2,000 men, the flower of our little army. But, as I before observed, I am not writing a history of the campaign.