usco. This act of justice was approved by the
army and the nation. Early in September the treachery of the Mexicans
became apparent. No progress had been made in the negotiations; and, in
defiance of the armistice, an American wagon, proceeding to the city for
provisions, had been attacked by the mob and one man killed and others
wounded. Scott wrote to Santa Anna, demanding an apology, and
threatening to terminate the armistice on the 7th if it were not
tendered. The reply was insulting in the extreme; Santa Anna had
repaired his losses and was ready for another fight.

On the evening of September 7th Worth and his officers were gathered in
his quarters at Tacubaya. On a table lay a hastily sketched map showing
the position of the fortified works at Molino del Rey, with the Casa
Mata on one side and the castle of Chapultepec on the other. The Molino
was occupied by the enemy; there was reason to believe it contained a
foundry in full operation, and Worth had been directed to storm it next
morning. Over that table bent Garland and Clarke, eager to repeat the
glorious deeds of August 20th at the _tete de pont_ of Churubusco;
Duncan and Smith, already veterans; Wright, the leader of the forlorn
hope, joyfully thinking of the morrow; famous Martin Scott, and
dauntless Graham, little dreaming that a few hours would see their livid
corpses stretched upon the plain; fierce old M'Intosh, covered with
scars; Worth himself, his manly brow clouded, and his cheek paled by
sickness and anxiety. Each officer had his place assigned to him in the
conflict; and they parted to seek a few hours' rest.

At half-past two on the morning of the 8th the division was astir. 'Twas
a bright starlight night whose silence was unbroken as the troops moved
thoughtfully toward the battlefield. In front, on the right, about a
mile from the encampment, the hewn-stone walls of the Molino del Rey--a
range of buildings five hundred yards long, and well adapted for
defence--were distinctly visible, with drowsy lights twinkling through
the windows. A little farther off, on the left, stood the black pile of
the Casa Mata, the arsenal, crenelled for musketry, and surrounded by a
quadrangular field work. Beyond the Casa Mata lay a ravine, and from
this a ditch and hedge ran, passing in front of both works, to the
Tacubaya road. Far on the right the grim old castle of Chapultepec
loomed up darkly against the sky. Sleep wrapped the whole Mexican line,
and but f