tified town. But while
the Republicans were largely _chinacos_, or raw soldiery, they
inside were trained men. There were the Cazadores, a Mexican edition of
the Chasseurs, organized by Bazaine under French drill masters. There
was Mendez's seasoned brigade. There was Arellano's artillery, though
numbering only fifty pieces. There were the crack Dragoons of the
Empress, the Austro-Mexican Hussars, and a squadron of the Municipal
Guards. There were veterans who had fought at Cerro Gordo, and steadily
ever since in the civil wars. There was the ancient Battalion de Celaya,
mainstay of the Spanish viceroys, and later of the Emperor Iturbide, its
colonel. There were the Battalion del Emperador, the Tiradores de la
Frontera, a company of engineers, and several well-disciplined regiments
of the line.

But the day came when they began to starve, and being hungry took the
heart out of many things. It took the heart out of bombarding Escobedo
in his hillside adobe; out of taunting "uncouth rebels." The rebels were
in trenches often not a street's width distant, and for reply they
pointed to certain dangling acorns who had been "traitors" caught
slipping through the lines. Being hungry took the heart out of the
quick-time diana, played after a brilliant sortie. Out of the embrace
Maximilian gave Miramon. Out of Miramon's call for vivas for His Majesty
the Emperor. Out of standard decorating and promotions and thrilling
words of praise. Out of the anniversary of Maximilian's acceptance of
the throne. Out of a medal presentation for military merit, which the
generals bestowed on their Emperor in the name of the army. Out of being
made a caballero of the Order of Guadalupe, especially as the monarch
could give only a ribbon, since the cross must wait until his return to
the capital. And being hungry certainly made pathetic his prediction
that some among those present would one day wear the medal for
twenty-five years of faithful service to the Empire. Being hungry took
the poet-hero's glow out of his wan cheek as he declared again that he,
a Hapsburg, would never desert, for even then he heard Imperialist
platoons shooting recaptured deserters. Or he thought of the wounded
left to die on the grassy plain and lying there unburied. No, all the
heart was being taken out of these things, for Marquez still did not
come with the help he had gone to bring, and the noose was tightening
day by day. Attempts were made to send some one through