At the palace gate don Adolfo found his horse held by a soldier; he at once leapt into the saddle, and after throwing a coin to the asistente, he again crossed the Plaza¹ Mayor, and entered the Calle de Tacuba.

It was about nine in the morning; the streets were crowded with pedestrians², horsemen, carriages, and carts, proceeding³ in all directions. The city, in a word, was leading that feverish⁴ existence of capitals during moments of a crisis, when all faces are restless, all glances suspicious—when conversations are only held in a low voice, and people are always led to suppose an enemy in the inoffensive stranger whom accident makes them suddenly meet.

Don Adolfo, while rapidly advancing through the streets, did not fail to observe what was going on around him; the ill-disguised restlessness, the growing anxiety of the population did not escape him. Earnestly attached to General Miramón, whose noble character, lofty ideas, and, above all, his real desire for the welfare of his country, had attracted him, he felt a profound mental grief at the sight of the general despondency of the masses, and the disaffection of the people toward the only man, who at this moment, had he been honestly supported, was able to save them from the government of Juárez—that is to say, from anarchy⁶ organized by the terrorism of the sabre. He continued to advance without appearing to pay any attention to what was going on, or to what was being said in the groups collected on the doorsteps, in the shops, or at the corners of the streets, groups in which the carrying off of the English money by General Márquez upon the peremptory⁷ order of the President of the Republic, was being discussed and appreciated in a thousand different ways.

Still, on entering the suburbs, don Adolfo found the population calmer; the news had now spread there, not to any great extent, and those who knew it appeared to trouble themselves very slightly about it, or perhaps considered it perfectly

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