We dined in one of the lofty, barren _salas_ of the Casa Grande; a room with a ceiling eighteen feet high, and walls of noble proportions, covered with cheap American wallpaper. A gigantic mahogany sideboard occupied one side of the place, but we had no knives and forks. There was a tiny fireplace, in which a fire was never lighted, yet the chill of death abode there day and night. The room next door was hung with heavy, spotted brocade, though there was no rug on the concrete floor. No pipes and no plumbing in all the house,—you went to the well or the river for water. And candles the only light! Of course the _dueño_ had long fled the country; but the hacienda in its prime must have been as splendid and as uncomfortable as a medieval castle. The _cura_ or priest of the hacienda church presided at dinner. To him were brought the choicest viands, which he sometimes passed to his favorites after helping himself. We drank _sotol_ and _aguamiel_, while the _cura_ made away with a whole bottle of looted anisette. Exhilarated by this, His Reverence descanted upon the virtues of the confessional, especially where young girls were concerned. He also made us understand that he possessed certain feudal rights over new brides. "The girls, here," he said, "are very passionate...." I noticed that the rest didn’t laugh much at this, though they were outwardly respectful. After we were out of the room, José Valiente hissed, shaking so that he could hardly speak: "I know the dirty ——! And my sister...! The Revolucion will have something to say about these _curas_!" Two high Constitutionalist officers afterward hinted at a little-known program to drive the priests out of Mexico; and Villa’s hostility to the _curas_ is well known. Patricio was harnessing the coach when I came out in the morning, and the Tropa were saddling up. The doctor, who was remaining with the General, strolled up to my friend, Trooper Juan Vallejo. "That’s a pretty horse you’ve got there," he said, "and a nice rifle. Lend them to me." "But I haven’t any other——" began Juan. "I am your superior officer," returned the doctor. And that was the last we ever saw of doctor, horse and rifle. I said farewell to the General, who was lying in torture in bed, sending bulletins to his mother by telephone every fifteen minutes. "May you journey happily," he said. "Write the truth. I commend you to Pablito." *CHAPTER IV* *LA TROPA ON THE MARCH*