After the battle of Cerro Gordo, our victorious troops pursued the enemy on to Jalapa, where the army halted to bring up its wounded, and prepare for an advance upon the capital of Mexico.

The Jalapenos did not receive us inhospitably—nor the Jalapenas either. They expected, as a matter of course, that we would sack their beautiful city. This we did not do, and their gratitude enabled our officers to pass their time somewhat agreeably. The gay round that always succeeds a battle—for dead comrades are soon forgotten amidst congratulations and new titles—had no fascination for me.

The balls, the tertulias, the dias de campo, were alike insipid and tiresome. She was not there—and where? I knew not. I might never see her again. All I knew was that they had gone up the country—perhaps to Cordova or Orizava.

Clayley shared my feelings. The bright eyes in the balconies, the sweet voices in the orange-shaded patios of Jalapa, had neither brightness nor music for us. We were both thoroughly miserable.

To add to this unhappy state of things, a bad feeling had sprung up among the officers of our army—a jealousy between the old and the new. Those of the old standing army, holding themselves as a species of military aristocracy, looked upon their brethren of the new regiments as “interlopers”; and this feeling pervaded all ranks, from the commander-in-chief down to the lowest subaltern.

It did not, however, interest all individuals. There were many honourable men on both sides who took no part in a question so ridiculous, but, on the contrary, endeavoured to frown it down. It was the child of idleness and a long spell of garrison duty. On the eve of a battle it always disappeared. I have adverted to this, not that it might interest the reader, but as explaining a result connected with myself.

One of the most prominent actors in this quarrel, on the side of the “old regulars”, was a young officer named Ransom, a captain in an infantry regiment. He was a good fellow in other respects, and a brave soldier, I believe; his chief weakness lay in a claim to be identified with the “aristocracy.”

It is strange that this miserable ambition is always strongest where it should exist with the least propriety. I have observed, in travelling through life—and so has the reader, no doubt—that parvenus are the greatest sticklers for aristocratic privilege; and Captain Ransom was no exception to this rule. In tumbling over some old family papers, I had found a receipt from the gallant captain’s grandfather to my own progenitor, acknowledging the payment of a bill for leather breeches.

It so happened that this very receipt was in my portmanteau at the time; and, nettled at the “carryings-on” of the tailor’s grandson, I drew it forth and spread it out upon the mess-table. My brethren of the mess were highly tickled at the document, several of them copying it off for future use.

A copy soon reached Ransom, who, in his hour of indignation, made use of certain expressions that, in their turn, soon reached me.

The result was a challenge, borne by my friend Clayley, and the affair was arranged for the following morning.

The place chosen for our morning’s diversion was a sequestered spot upon the banks of the river Zedena, and along the solitary road that leads out towards the Cofre de Perote.

At sunrise we rode out in two carriages, six of us, including our seconds and surgeons. About a mile from town we halted, and leaving the carriages upon the road, crossed over into a small glade in the midst of the chaparral.

It was as pretty a spot for our purpose as the heart could wish for, and had often, we were informed, been used for similar morning exercises—that was, before chivalry had died out among the descendants of Cortez and the conquerors.

The ground was soon lined off—ten paces—and we took our stands, back to back. We were to wheel at the word “Ready!” and fire at “One, two, three!”

We were waiting for the word with that death-like silence which always precedes a similar signal, when Little Jack, who had been left with the carriages, rushed into a glade, calling with all his might:

“Captain! Captain!”

Every face was turned upon him with scowling inquiry, when the boy, gasping for breath, shouted out:

“The Mexicans are............