rest of his party were behind him on the road, beyond the distant horizon of the prairie. By his face he was American, but his costume was the dress of old Mexico, the leather jacket and trousers, the broad white hat and huge jingling spurs. His lazo hung in front of his high-peaked saddle, and his well-worn serape was rolled up behind him like a trooper’s cloak. As he approached the town, he spurred his jaded beast, who broke into the old familiar paso of the Mexican plains. “It was my last sight of Mexico,” said my companion. He saluted the horseman in Spanish, and the well-known words of welcome made the grim man’s haggard sunburnt features relax into a smile as he returned the salutation and rode on.
As for myself, my voyage home was short and unadventurous. From Vera Cruz to Havana, most of my companions were Mexican refugees who had been turned out of the country for being mixed up with Haro’s revolution or Santa Ana’s intrigues. They were showily got-up men, elaborately polite, and with much to say for themselves; but every now and then some casual remark showed what stuff they were made of, and I pitied more than ever the unfortunate countries whose political destinies depend on the intrigues of these adventurers.