It was a struggle between Aurora and the moon which of them should rule
the sky, when our bugle rang its clear _reveille_, rousing the rangers
from their slumber, and startling their steeds at the stall. The
goddess of morning soon triumphed, and under her soft blue light, men
and horses could be seen moving about, until the bugle again sounded--
this time to "boot and saddle"--and the rangers began to form in the
piazza, and prepare for the route.
A single wagon with its white tilt and long team of mules, already
"hitched up," stood near the centre of the square. It constituted the
whole baggage-train of the corps, and served as an ambulance for our
invalids. Both baggage and sick had been safely stowed, and the vehicle
was ready for the road. The bugler, already in his saddle, awaited
orders to sound the "forward."
I had climbed to my favourite "smoking-room," the azotea. Perhaps it
was the last time I should ever set foot on those painted tiles. My
eyes wandered over the piazza, though I little heeded what was passing
there. Only the salient points of the picture were noted by me--steeds
under saddle and bridle; men buckling on folded blankets, holsters, and
valises; a few already in the saddle; a few more standing by the heads
of their horses, and still another few grouped round the door of the
_pulperia_, having a last drink of _mezcal_ or _Catalan_ with their
swarthy Mexican acquaintances.
Here and there, in front of some adobe hut, might be observed a more
tender leave-taking. The ranger fully equipped--with arms, haversack,
and canteen--leaning against the heavy bars of a window, his face turned
inward, as though he was talking to some prisoner through the grating of
a jail. But he is himself the real captive, ensnared during his short
sojourn, and still held in chains by the olive-skinned _poblana_, whose
dark liquid eyes may be seen on the other side of the reja, flashing
with love, or melting with sad tenderness at the prospect of parting.
Others, again, are bidding their _adios_ in retired corners, under the
shadow of the church walls, or in groups of four or five more openly in
the piazza itself. Early as is the hour, the people have all arisen;
and not a few of the brown, rebosa-clad, short-skirted wenches are
already on their way, _jarro_ on crown, to the fountain. There the
pitchers are filled, and lifted on their heads--perhaps for the last
time--by the rangers, who perform the office with all the rude grace in
their power. Then follows a profusion of smiles and bows, and a
dialogue, on the ranger's part extending to the whole of his Spanish,
which consists of the phrase--
"Mucho bueno, muchacha!"