The distance was long. He had scarce expected that any representative of the other would be able to reach the spot on time. Even more likely his rival would plead lack of time as excuse for failure to comply. The evidences of haste and hard riding on Brinton’s part were, perhaps, in their way as high a tribute to the occasion as could well have been paid by more gaudy costume. Wherefore, the smile of lofty welcome. “I thank General Taylor for his courtesy,” said the commanding general, “and I commend his representative’s speed. Leave your horse with an orderly, Colonel Brinton. I have had a seat reserved for you here.” Scott turned again toward the Mexican official who, shuffling and fidgeting, was trying to find some new position wherefrom to launch his many-sealed address. But before the general could request the reader to proceed Brinton interposed. With ponderous gravity he maneuvered his horse so that the tired brute’s flank well-nigh collided with the Mexican. Thus, having sent the official scuttling out of the exact center of the space before the platform, Brinton reined his mount into the hurriedly vacated spot. General Scott scowled. One of the broadcloth-clad civilians snickered. The staff stared open-eyed. This solemn equestrian with the bloodshot eyes and drawn face was behaving with strange lack of military decorum in the presence of his chief. “General Scott,” declaimed Brinton in a voice which, though not consciously uplifted, penetrated through the still noonday air to the far corners of the plaza. “General Scott, I am going to say just a few words.” Again the general’s Jovelike displeasure softened. This interruption in the cut-and-dried proceedings of the day grated harshly upon his craze for method. Yet, on an instant’s thought, he recognized its probable value. That his rival’s proxy should ride up to the dais in this dramatic fashion and there publicly transmit General Taylor’s respects and compliments, was an unannounced but none the less acceptable feature of the programme. It was a tribute that ought to silence forever the oft-repeated Mexican query as to whether or not Scott outranked Taylor. With an Olympian nod, the general said: “Proceed, sir. I am ready to hear General Taylor’s message.” “General Scott,” began Brinton once more, and this time his deep voice rose to oratorical volume, “on the platform before me I behold a sea of upturned faces. And not one honest face in the lot. I see in the place of honor--the place by rights due to General Taylor--a pompous and fat popinjay, lovingly known throughout the Union as ‘Old Fuss-and-Feathers.’ I see--” The dais was in an uproar. A sheaf of sabers were whipped sibilantly from their scabbards. Scott, his rotund face purple, rolled out of his seat and onto his plump legs. “Sir!” he bellowed. “Consider yourself under arrest! General Taylor--”