But now that the conflict was over, Scott was in his element. He was the ideal god of war; a far more impressive figure on this climax day than down-at-heel, tobacco-chewing old Zachary Taylor could have hoped to be. The regiment came to a halt. At a barked order, eight hundred cumbrous muzzle-loading muskets clicked to the “present,” then, with a double click, to the “carry.” The last off-key strains of “Columbia” moaned out, and the sweating musicians laid aside their instruments. A gold-laced Mexican, whose uniform coat bore as many decorations as a champion swimmer’s, stepped into the open space in front of the platform, unrolled a terrifying parchment document that jingled with seals, cleared his throat and prepared to read. General Scott folded his plump arms across his plumper chest, assumed an air of gracious dignity, and prepared to listen. His staff and the civilians on the dais stood in impressive attitudes to hear a document in a tongue few of them had troubled to master; and prepared to be bored. None of the three sets of preparations was destined to ripen into fulfillment. For just then, riding unceremoniously through the close-packed crowd of natives at the left of the dais, appeared a horseman in the fatigue uniform of a colonel of cavalry. His uniform was stained and old, and was further disfigured by a coating of white dust and foam-fleck. The big sorrel horse was sweat-streaked and evidently half-exhausted. The man took in the scene in a single quick look. Touching his tired horse with the spur, he rode straight up to the dais, almost tramping the Mexican dignitary under foot; saluted mechanically, and then sat blinking in moody reverie at General Scott. There was a moment’s hush through which a bugle call was drifted, faint but wholly audible from the American camp far to the east of the plaza. Scott squinted in annoyed perplexity at the newcomer. The latter suddenly straightened in the saddle, saluted again and rasped out: “Lieutenant-Colonel James Brinton of General Taylor’s personal staff. Present in reply to General Scott’s request that General Taylor send a representative to this celebration.” Real pleasure effaced the annoyance in Scott’s face. Even as no Roman triumph was complete without the presence of humbled rivals, so his day of glory was immeasurably sweetened by the fact that the general whose prowess had all but overshadowed his own was, by proxy at least, a witness to the scene. Scott beamed with lofty graciousness on Lieutenant-Colonel James Brinton. He would vastly have preferred that his rival’s delegate should have looked more like a military tailor’s dummy, on this day of days, and less like a dust-sprinkled scarecrow. But Scott had sent somewhat belated word--an afterthought--to Taylor.