It was still only an hour by sun as we rode off from the Eagle’s Cave. At some distance I turned in my saddle and looked back. It was a singular sight, those five hanging corpses, and one not easily forgotten. What an appalling picture it must have been to their own comrades, who doubtless watched the spectacle from some distant elevation!

Motionless they hung, in all the picturesque drapery of their strange attire—draggling—dead! The pines bent slightly over, the eagle screamed as he swept past, and high in the blue air a thousand bald vultures wheeled and circled, descending at every curve.

Before we had ridden out of sight the Eagle’s Cliff was black with zopilotes, hundreds clustering upon the pines, and whetting their fetid beaks over their prey, still warm. I could not help being struck with this strange transposition of victims.

We forded the stream below, and travelled for some hours in a westerly course over a half-naked ridge. At mid-day we reached an arroyo—a clear, cool stream that gurgled along under a thick grove of the palma redonda. Here we “nooned”, stretching our bodies along the green-sward.

At sundown we rode into the pueblito (hamlet) of Jacomulco, where we had determined to pass the night. Twing levied on the alcalde for forage for “man and beast”. The horses were picketed in the plaza, while the men bivouacked by their fires—strong mounted pickets having been thrown out on the roads or tracks that led to the village.

By daybreak we were again in our saddles, and, riding across another ridge, we struck the Plan River five miles above the bridge, and commenced riding down the stream. We were still far from the water, which roared and “soughed” in the bottom of a barranca, hundreds of feet below our path.

On crossing an eminence a sight suddenly burst upon us that caused us to leap in our saddles. Directly before us, and not a mile distant, rose a high round hill like a semi-globe, and from a small tower upon its top waved the standard of Mexico.

Long lines of uniformed men girdled the tower, formed in rank. Horsemen in bright dresses galloped up and down the hill. We could see the glitter of brazen helmets, and the glancing of a thousand bayonets. The burnished howitzer flashed in the sunbeams, and we could discern the cannoniers standing by their posts. Bugles were braying and drums rolling. So near were they that we could distinguish the call. They were sounding the “long roll!”

“Halt! Great Heaven!” cried Twing, jerking his horse upon its haunches; “we are riding into the enemy’s camp! Guide,” he added, turning fiercely to Raoul, and half-drawing his sword, “what’s this?”

“The hill, Major,” replied the soldier coolly, “is ‘El Telegrafo’. It is the Mexican head-quarters, I take it.”

“And, sir, what mean you? It is not a mile distant?”

“It is ten miles, Major.”

“Ten! Why, sir, I can trace the eagle upon that flag! It is not one mile, by Heaven!”

“By the eye, true; but by the road, Major, it is what I have said—ten miles. We passe............