My troopers were forming on the field, preparatory to taking the route; and this among other motives decided my course of action.
Just as the sun had reached his meridian height, the bugler sounded the “forward!” and riding at the head of my little troop, I bade adieu to Cerro Gordo, now sacred to the god of war, but in my mind to remain hallowed as the spot upon which I had worshipped a far more agreeable divinity.
Story 1, Chapter XV.
Two Old Acquaintances.
Up the road from Cerro Gordo we travelled upon the track of a routed army.
All had not made good their retreat, as was evidenced by many a sad spectacle that came under our eyes as we went onward.
Here lay the dead horse, sunblown to enormous dimensions, with one lag—a hind one—stiffly projecting into the air.
Not far off might be seen the corpse of his quondam rider, in like manner swollen—bloated to the very tips of the fingers—so that the latter scarcely protruded from the palms, that more resembled boxing-gloves than the hands of a human being!