The counsel I had received from my sage comrade, along with the excitement of opening a new chapter in our campaign, gave temporary relief to my wounded spirit. An untrodden track was before us--new fields of fame--to end in that long anticipated, much talked-of, pleasure: a revel in the "Halls of the Moctezumas!" To me the prospect had but little attraction: and even this was gone, before we had passed the _Piedmont_ of the Cordillera that overlooks the classic town of Cholula. On entering the "Black Forest," whose trees were to screen it from my sight, I turned to take a parting look at the City of the Angels. The chances were nearly equal I might never see it again. We were about to enter a valley close as that of Cabool; and from which retreat would be even more difficult. Our troops, all told, mustered scarce ten thousand; while the _trained_ regiments of our enemy were of themselves three times the number. Besides, we were about to penetrate a capital city--the very heart's core of an ancient nation. Would it not rouse our adversaries to a gigantic effort--a throe sufficient to overwhelm us? So supposed many of my comrades. For myself I had no reflections about the future--either of its conquests or defeats. My thoughts were with my eyes--wandering over the vast _vega_--resting on the spires of a city, where I had experienced one of the sweetest sensations of my life. Alas! it had proved a deception, and I had no pleasure in recalling it. On the contrary, I looked back upon the place with a cold pain at my heart, and a consciousness, that I had there sacrificed some of its warmest affections without an iota of return! I remained for some minutes on the edge of the _Bosque Negra_--the _ancillae_ of the long-leaved pines sweeping the crown of my forage cap. Under my eyes, as on a chart, was spread the fertile plain of Puebla, with the city projected in clear outline. Besides the Cathedral, many a spire could I distinguish, and that "public walk" where I had suffered such humiliation. My eyes traced the lines of the streets--running parallel, as in all Spanish-American cities--and sought that of the Calle del Obispo. I fancied that I could distinguish it; and along with the fancy a score of souvenirs came sweeping over my soul. They were not pleasant--not one of them. Though all bright below-- turrets rising gaily against the turquoise sky--domes that sparkled silver-like in the sun--Orizava snow-white in the distance--around me upon the mountain side all seemed dark as death! It was not the _lava_ that laced the slope, nor the sombre foliage of the pine-trees, under whose shade I was standing. The shadow came from within--from the cloud covering my soul. It was not dread of the Black Forest behind me--the terror of stage-coach travellers--nor apprehension of the fate that might be awaiting me in the capital of the Moctezumas, yet to be conquered.