As I had anticipated, the major proved exceedingly useful during the visit. In his capacity of quarter-master he had already picked up a little Spanish—enough to hold Don Cosmé in check over the wine; while Clayley and myself, with “Lupé” and “Luz”, walked out into the verandah to “take a peep at the moon”. Her light was alluring, and we could not resist the temptation of a stroll through the gardens.
It was celestial night; and we dallied along dos y dos (two and two), under the pictured shadows of the orange-trees, and sat upon curiously-formed benches, and gazed upon the moon, and listened to the soft notes of the tropic night-birds.
The perils of the past were all forgotten, and the perils of the future—we thought not of them.
It was late when we said “buenas noches” to our friends, and we parted with a mutual “hasta la mañana.” It is needless to say that we kept our promise in the morning, and made another for the following morning, and kept that too; and so on till the awful bugle summoned us once more to the “route.”
The detail of our actions during these days would have no interest for the reader, though to us the most interesting part of our lives. There was a sameness—a monotony, it is true; but a monotony that both my friend and myself could have endured for ever.
I do not even remember the details. All I can remember is, that on the eve of our march I found myself “cornering” Don Cosmé, and telling him plainly, to his teeth, that I meant to marry one of his daughters; and that my friend—who had not yet learned the “lingo”, and had duly commissioned me as his “go-between”—would be most happy to take the other off his hands.
I remember very well, too, Don Cosmé’s reply, which was given with a half-smile, half-grin—somewhat cold, though not disagreeable in its expression. It was thus:
“Captain—when the war is over.”
Don Cosmé had no intention that his daughters should become widows before they had fairly been wives.
And we bade adieu once more to the light of love, and walked in the shadow of war; and we toiled up to the high tables of the Andes, and crossed the burning plains of Perote; and we forded the cold streams of Rio Frio, and climbed the snowy spurs of Popocatepec; and, after many a toilsome march, our bayonets bristled along the borders of the Lake Tezcoco. Here we fought—a death-struggle, too—for we knew there was no retreat. But our struggle was crowned with victory, and the starry flag waved over the ancient city of the Aztecs.