pon
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 manana_." 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 Cosme, 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 Cosme'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 Cosme 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.

Neither my friend nor myself escaped unhurt. We were shot "all over";
but, fortunately, no bones were broken, and neither of us was converted
into a cripple.

And then came the "piping times of peace", and Clayley and I spent our
days in riding out upon the Jalapa road, watching for that great old
family-carriage, which, it had been promised, should come.

And it came rumbling along at length, drawn by twelve mules, and
deposited its precious load in a