e
the Captain himself had fought during the whole length of a summer's
day!

Of all the leaders of the Mexican revolution, there was none in whose
history I felt so much interest as in the _priest-soldier_, Morelos--or,
as he is familiarly styled in Mexican annals, the "illustrious
Morelos"--and yet there was none of whose private life I could obtain so
few details. His public career having become historic, was, of course,
known to every one who chose to read of him. But what I desired was a
more personal and intimate knowledge of this remarkable man, who from
being the humble curate of an obscure village in Oajaca, became in a few
short months the victorious leader of a well-appointed army, and master
of all the southern provinces of New Spain.

"Can you give me any information regarding Morelos?" I asked of Captain
Castanos, as we were journeying along the route between Tepic and
Guadalaxara.

"Ah! Morelos? he was a great soldier," replied the ex-captain of
guerilleros. "In the single year of 1811, he fought no less than
twenty-six battles with the Spaniards. Of these he won twenty-two; and
though he lost the other four, each time he retreated with honour--"

"Hum! I know all that already," said I, interrupting my
fellow-traveller. "You are narrating history to me, while I want only
chronicles. In other words, I want to hear those more private and
particular details of Morelos' life which the historians have not
given."

"Ah! I understand you," said the captain, "and I am sorry that I cannot
satisfy your desires: since, during the war I was mostly engaged in the
northern provinces, and had no opportunity of knowing much of Morelos
personally. But if my good friend, Don Cornelio Lantejas, is still
living at Tepic, when we arrive there, I shall put you in communication
with him. He can tell you more about Morelos than any other living man:
since he was _aide-de-camp_ to the General through all his campaigns,
and served him faithfully up to the hour of his death."

Our conversation here ended, for we had arrived at the inn where we
intended to pass the night--the _Venta de la Sierra Madre_.

Early on the following morning, before any one had yet arisen, I left my
chamber--in a corner of which, rolled in his ample _manga_, Captain
Castanos was still soundly asleep. Without making any noise to disturb
him, I converted my coverlet into a cloak--that is, I folded my serape
around my shoulders, and walke