Three days brought them to the handsome city of Saltillo, where Margarita found a refuge among her many relatives. De Marsiac was reported at headquarters and sent to the rear; while Harding and Grant—wiser if not better men—rejoined their companies, and resumed their duties. The events of their captivity seemed to have cured the latter of the pleasant malady which had afflicted him; and the pair became, in a short time, as inseparable as ever. They visited Margarita together, and though the younger winced a little, when by any chance the subject of his hallucination was referred to, on the whole he bore his disappointment with a good grace.
The battle of Buena Vista closed the campaign in that part of the country; and shortly afterward the regiment to which they were attached was discharged. Before their return home, however, the ancient rivals returned to Saltillo—where, in the handsome cathedral, Harding and Margarita were united in marriage. And, a pleasant memento of rather uncertain times, the officiating priest was the worthy Father Aneres, who had figured in the history of Harding and Grant while they were “_Captive Rivals_!”
[3] Mexican leagues—about one hundred and forty miles.
King “by the grace of God!” where is the token By which we know thy right it is to reign! Jehovah’s will, of old, in words was spoken, Who heard His voice thy sovereignty proclaim?
No! thou art king, _not_ by “the grace of God,” But usurpation only—guiltless he That doth resist thy claims, and, though in blood Poured out like water, rids the earth of thee!
How brightly did the summer’s sun Wake up the dewy morn, And chase the misty shadows from The cot where we were born; It stood amid the peaceful hills Where worldlings never rove, The violet-spotted earth around— The glorious sky above.
Two tall elms were its sentinels, With arms uplifted high; And these were all we needed, save The watchers of the sky; And while amid the thick, green leaves The moonbeams dallied bright, The stars looked down on us at play, Oft on the summer night.
O, every month of childhood’s years, How well do I remember, With all their smiles and fleeting tears, From New Year’s till December; No care or burden had we then— No life-lines on the brow; We knew it not—I wonder if We’re any wiser now.