"_Bueno!_" he said cheerfully. "I win. Until to-morrow then, _amigo_!" And the automobile gathered speed and disappeared down the street. The horseman slowly went to where his hat lay, picked it up and examined it. He stood a moment meditating, and then deliberately mounted his horse and he also went away. I had already started some time before.... In the plaza the regimental band was playing "El Pagare," the song which started Orozco’s Revolution. It was a parody of the original, referring to Madero’s payment of his family’s $750,000 war claims as soon as he became president, that spread like wildfire over the Republic, and had to be suppressed with police and soldiers. "El Pagare" is even now taboo in most revolutionary circles, and I have heard of men being shot for singing it; but in Jimenez at this time the utmost license prevailed. Moreover, the Mexicans, unlike the French, have absolutely no feeling for symbols. Bitterly antagonistic sides use the same flag; in the plaza of almost every town still stand eulogistic statues of Porfirio Diaz; even at officers’ mess in the field I have drunk from glasses stamped with the likeness of the old dictator, while Federal army uniforms are plentiful in the ranks. But "El Pagare" is a swinging, glorious tune, and under the hundreds of little electric light globes strung on the plaza a double procession marched gaily round and round. On the outside, in groups of four, went the men, mostly soldiers. On the inside, in the opposite direction, the girls walked arm in arm. As they passed they threw handfuls of confetti at one another. They never talked to one another, never stopped; but as a girl caught a man’s fancy, he slipped a lover’s note into her hand as she went by, and she answered with a smile if she liked him. Thus they met, and later the girl would manage to let the _caballero_ know her address; this would lead to long talks at her window in the darkness, and then they would be lovers. It was a delicate business, this handing of notes. Every man carried a gun, and every man’s girl was his jealously guarded property. It was a killing matter to hand a note to someone else’s girl. The close-packed throng moved gaily on, thrilling to the music.... Beyond the plaza gaped the ruins of Marcos Russek’s store, which these same men had looted less than two weeks before, and at one side the ancient pink cathedral towered among its fountains and great trees, with the iron and glass illuminated sign, "Santo Cristo de Burgos," shining above the door.