and they did
scamper off most expeditiously.

We got back to the city, without a wetting and without a chance of
getting frightened, where the faithful old mustang and I parted company
forever. Ten Mexican dollars was the market value of horse, saddle, and
bridle--less than the cost of his city eating, which he had enjoyed
with a gusto; and we took diverse ways at parting. The faithful old
fellow went to the silver mines, and I returned to the United States,
after an absence of three years and more, in which I had been through
perils by land and perils by water, but not sufficient to satisfy my
taste for adventure.

Up to this time I was a firm believer in the story of Cortez. But when
I had retired from active duties, I began to think of writing a book. I
did what no other foreign writer on Mexico has yet done--I made a
journey to the country _at my own charges_. I was not in the employment
of any company or any government; I was under no obligation to praise
any man who did not deserve it, and not disposed to speak unnecessary
evil of any, whether they deserved it or not. My advantages above most
writers upon Mexico were these: my independent position, and my
intimate knowledge of the character of the North American Indians,
acquired before I had gained any preconceived notions from the writings
of others. My father, who had lived among the Iroquois, or Six Nations,
in the family of Joseph Brandt, and went through the usual forms of
adoption in place of some Indian who had died, gave me my first lessons
on Indian character; and a taste so early acquired I followed up in
after life. My ancestors for several generations dwelt near the Indian
agency at Cherry Valley, on "Wilson's Patent," and in a neighboring
village was I born, but removed early in life to a part of the country
that had belonged to the Senecas, where I enjoyed a good opportunity of
studying Indian character.

It was the feast-day of the kings, _los Reyes_, when after my return to
Mexico, I was again in the saddle, riding out from Mexico toward the
village of Tezcuco. I had to take a by-way to avoid the Guadalupe road,
which was blocked up in consequence of the holiday. In doing so, I had
to leap a ditch or canal, in which both I and my horse came near
closing our pilgrimage in a quagmire; but in time we were again upon
the road. It is a dreary place about the hill of Tepeyaca, or
Guadalupe, and if the Virgin had not smiled upon the barren hill and
m