As the American army moved down the road to Vera Cruz, many travelling carriages were in its train. In one of these were a girl and a grey-haired old man. Almost constantly during the march a young officer might be seen riding by this carriage, conversing through the windows with its occupants within.
A short time after the return troops landed at New Orleans, a bridal party were seen to enter the old Spanish cathedral; the bridegroom was an officer who had lost an arm. His fame and the reputed beauty of the bride had brought together a large concourse of spectators.
“She loved me,” said L— to me on the morning of this his happiest day; “she loved me in spite of my mutilated limb, and should I cease to love her because she has—no, I see it not; she is to me the same as ever.”
And there were none present who saw it; few were there who knew that under those dark folds of raven hair were the souvenirs of a terrible tragedy.
The Mexican government behaved better to the Ayankeeados than was expected. They did not confiscate the property; and L— is now enjoying his fortune in a snug hacienda, somewhere in the neighbourhood of San Angel.