alling the homage of the younger for the elder brother, a
worship as natural as pagan adoration of the sun. From the sanguine
fore-time to the dead present lay a bridge of darkness. With honor
within grasp, deliberately he had sought dishonor, little recking
of shame and murder, and childishly husbanding green, red and blue
pebbles!

Weighing the stones in his hand now, Ernest Saint-Prosper looked at
them long and bitterly. For these the honor and pride of an old family
had been sold. For these he himself had endured the reflected
disgrace; isolation from comradeship; distrust which had blighted his
military career at the outset. How different had been the reality from
his expectations; the buoyant hopes of youth; the fond anticipation of
glory, succeeded by stigma and stain! And, as the miserable,
perplexing panorama of these later years pictured itself in his brain
he threw, with a sudden gesture, the gems far from him, over the wall,
out toward the valley!

Like dancing beams of color, they flashed a moment in mid air; then
mingled their hues with the rainbow tints of a falling stream. Lost to
sight, they sank in the crystal waters which leaped with a caressing
murmur toward the table-land; only the tiny spectrum, vivid reminder
of their color, still waved and wavered from rock to rock above a
pellucid pool.

"I beg your pardon, Colonel," said a voice at his elbow, breaking in
upon his reflections; "are you wounded?"

With drawn features, the officer turned.

"No; I am not wounded."

"The general directs you to take this message to the commanding
general," continued the little aide. "I believe I may congratulate
you, sir, for you will have the honor of bearing the news of the
victory." He handed Saint-Prosper a sealed message. "It's been a
glorious day, sir, but"--gazing carelessly around him--"has cost many
a brave life!"

"Yes, many a life!" answered the other, placing the message in his
breast and steadfastly regarding for the last time the figure beneath
the gun.

"We ought to be in the City of Mexico in a day or two, sir," resumed
the aide. "Won't it be jolly though, after forced marches and all that
sort of thing! Fandangos; tambourines; cymbals! And the pulque! What
creatures of the moment we are, sir!" he added, with sudden
thoughtfulness. "'Twill be, after all, like dancing over the graves of
our dear comrades!"

CHAPTER VIII

A FAIR PENITENT

The reception to General Zachary Taylor,