The closing months of 18— had arrived. Political events were beginning to press on each other with such rapidity that the least enlightened minds already understood that they were hurrying towards an imminent catastrophe. In the South, the troops of General Gutiérrez had gained a great victory over the constitutional army commanded by General don Diego álvarez (the same who at an earlier period presided at Guaymas over the court-martial that condemned to death our unfortunate countryman and friend Count Gaston de Raousset Boulbon). The carnage of the Pinto Indians had been immense: 1200 remained on the battlefield, and the artillery and abundant materiel fell into the hands of the victor. But at the same period, there commenced in the interior a series of opposite events: the first was the flight of Zuloaga, that president who, after abdicating in favour of Miramón, revoked that abdication one day without knowing exactly why, without consulting anyone, and at the moment when it was least expected.

General Miramón then loyally offered to the President of the Supreme Court of Justice to assume the executive power and convoke the assembly of the Notables to have himself elected chief magistrate of the Republic. While this was happening, a new catastrophe added fresh dangers to the situation. Miramón, whom his continual victories had probably endowed with imprudent confidence, or more probably impelled by the desire to come to an end in some way or another, offered battle at Silao to forces four times his own. He suffered a complete rout, lost his artillery, and was himself on the point of perishing: it was only by performing prodigies of valour, and killing with his own hand several of those that surrounded him, that he succeeded in cutting his way out of the melée and escaping to Querétaro, where he arrived almost alone. From this place, Miramón, not allowing himself to be crushed by misfortunes, returned to Mexico, whose inhabitants thus learned simultaneously his defeat, his arrival, and his intention to offer himself for election.

The result did not disappoint the secret expectations of the general: he was elected President by the Chamber of Notables almost unanimously. The general, who knew how time pressed, took the oaths, and immediately entered on his duties. Although materially the defeat at Silao was almost nothing, still from a moral point of view the effect produced was immense. Miramón understood this: he actively employed himself in restoring a little order in the finances, creating resources, precarious but sufficient for the urgent necessities of the moment in raising fresh troops, and taking all the precautions that prudence suggested. Unfortunately the president was constrained to abandon several important points in order to concentrate his forces round Mexico, and these various movements, ill-understood by the people, alarmed them and made them apprehend approaching misfortunes. Under these circumstances, the president, wishing doubtless to satisfy public opinion and restore a little tranquillity to the capital, consented to enter into negotiations with his rival Juárez, which, if they did not lead to peace, might at any rate produce an armistice which would temporarily check bloodshed. Unluckily, a fresh complication rendered all hope of an arrangement impossible.

General Márquez had been sent to the relief of Guadalajara, which town, it was supposed continued successfully to resist the federal troops; but all at once, after the federals had carried off a conducta de plata belonging to English merchants, an armistice was concluded between the two belligerent corps—an armistice with which the money of the conducta had no doubt a great deal to do—and General Castillo, commandant of Guadalajara, abandoned by the majority of his troops, found himself compelled to leave the town and take refuge on the Pacific: so that the federals, freed from this obstacle, combined against Márquez, defeated him, and destroyed his corps, the only one that still kept the field. The situation thus became more and more critical: the federals meeting with no further obstacle or resistance in their victorious march, rose up on all sides and every hope of negotiations was lost. Fighting must go on at all risks. The fall of Miramón, consequently, could only be a question of time: the general doubtless perfectly comprehended this, but he did not let it be seen, and, on the contrary, redoubled his ardour and activity in order to parry the incessantly rising embarrassments of his situation.

After appealing to all classes of society, the general at length resolved to apply to the clergy, whom he had always supported and protected: they replied to his appeal, raised a tithe on their lands, and resolved to carry to the mint their gold and silver ornaments, to be melted and placed at the disposal of the ex-executive power. Unfortunately, all these efforts were thrown away, the expenses increased in a ratio with the continually growing dangers of the situation, and ere long Miramón, after vainly employing all the expedients which his critical position suggested to him, found himself with an empty treasury and the sorrowful conviction that it was useless to dream of refilling it.

We have already had occasion to explain how as each State of the Mexican confederation remains in possession of the public funds during a period of revolution, the government sitting at Mexico finds itself almost continually in a state of utter penury, because it only has the funds of the State of Mexico at its disposal, while its rivals, on the contrary, constantly beating up the country in all directions, not only stop the conductas de plata and appropriate very considerable sums without the slightest remorse, but also plunder the exchequer of all the States they enter, carry off the money without the slightest scruple, and thus find themselves in a position to carry on the war without disadvantage.

Now, that we have rapidly sketched the political situation in which Mexico was, we will resume our narrative in the early days of Nov. 18—, that is to say, about six weeks after the period when we interrupted it. Night was advancing, shadows were already invading the plain, the oblique beams of the setting sun, gradually expelled from the valleys, were still clinging to the snowy peaks of the mountains of Anahuac, which they tinged with vermillion hues: the breeze rustled through the foliage: vaqueros, mounted on horses as wild as themselves, were driving across the plain large herds which had wandered all day at liberty, but at night returned to the corral. In the distance could be heard tingling the mule bells of some belated arrieros, who were hurrying to reach the magnificent highway lined enormous aloes, contemporaries of Motecuhzoma, which runs to Mexico.

A traveller, mounted on a powerful horse and carefully wrapped in the folds of a cloak which was pulled up to his eyes, was slowly following the capricious windings of a narrow track which, cutting across country, joined at about two leagues from the town the high road from Mexico to Puebla, a road at this moment completely deserted, not only on account of the approach of night, but also because the state of anarchy into which the country had so long been plunged, had let loose numerous bands of brigands who, taking advantage of the circumstances and waging war in their own way, stripped without any distinction of political opinion both constitutionals and liberals, and emboldened by impunity, did not always content themselves with the highway, but even entered the towns to carry on their depredations. Still, the traveller to whom we allude appeared to trouble himself very little about the risks he ran, and continued his venturesome ride at the same quiet and gentle rate. He went on thus for about three-quarters of an hour, and was not more than a league from the city when, happening to raise his head, he perceived that he had reached a spot where the track parted and ran to the right and left: he halted with evident hesitation, but a moment later took the right hand track. The traveller, after going in this direction for about ten minutes appeared to know where he was, for he gave his horse a slight touch of the spur, and made it break into a long trot. Ere long he reached a pile of blackened ruins, scattered disorderly over the ground, and near which grew a clump of trees whose long branches overshadowed the earth around them for a considerable distance. On reaching this spot, the horseman halted, and after looking searchingly around him, evidently to make sure that he was alone, he dismounted, sat down comfortably on a sod of grass, leaned against a tree, threw back his cloak and revealed the pale worn features of the wounded man whom we saw conducted to the rancho by Dominique, the vaquero.

Don Antonio de Cacerbar, for such was his name, only appeared the shadow of his former self—a sort of mournful spectre. His whole life appeared concentrated in his eyes, which flashed with a sinister gleam like those of fawns; but in this body, apparently so weak, it could be seen that an ardent mind and energetic will were enclosed, and that this man, who had emerged a victor from an obstinate struggle with death, was pursuing with unswerving obstinacy the execution of dark resolutions previously formed by him. Scarce cured from his frightful wound, still very weak, and only enduring with extreme difficulty the fatigue of a long ride, he had, for all that, imposed silence on his sufferings, to come thus at nightfall nearly three leagues from Mexico to a rendezvous which he had himself requested. The motives for such conduct, especially in his state of weakness, must be of very great importance to him.

A few minutes elapsed, during which don Antonio, with his arms crossed on his chest, and his eyes closed, reflected, and in all probability prepared himself for the interview he was about to have with the person he had come so far to see. All at once a sound of horses, mingled with the clank of sabres, announced that a rather large troop of horsemen was approaching the spot where don Antonio was waiting. He drew himself up, looked nervously in the direction whence the noise came, and rose, doubtless to receive his visitor. They were fifty in number. They halted about fifteen paces from the ruins, but remained in the saddle. Only one of them dismounted, threw his bridle to a horseman, and walked up to don Antonio, who, on his side, advanced to meet him.

"Who are you?" don Antonio asked in a low voice, when he was ............