One was the remnant of the Mexican army, which slunk silently and
noiselessly through the northern gate, and fled to Guadalupe-Hidalgo;
the other was a body of officers who came under a white flag, to propose
terms of capitulation.
The sun shone brightly on the morning of September 14th. Scores of
neutral flags float from the windows on the Calle de Plateros, and in
their shade beautiful women gaze curiously on the scene beneath. Gayly
dressed groups throng the balconies, and at the street-corners
dark-faced men scowl, mutter deep curses, and clutch their knives. The
street resounds with the heavy tramp of infantry, the rattle of
gun-carriages, and the clatter of horses' hoofs. "_Los Yanquies_!" is
the cry, and every neck is stretched to obtain a glimpse of the six
thousand bemired and begrimed soldiers who are marching proudly to the
Grand Plaza. On him especially is every eye intently fixed, whose
martial form is half concealed by a splendid staff and a squadron of
dragoons, as he rides, with flashing eye and beating heart, to the
National Palace of Mexico.
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