General Lambert, with the reserves, did not come within range, but of the six thousand British actually engaged, two thousand one hundred had fallen—more than one in every three. Of the fourteen hundred wounded, six hundred died within the week. Seven hundred and thirty dead were buried where they fell. The American loss was only eight killed and thirteen wounded by artillery fire. The British retreated to their ships and sailed away, and New Orleans was saved, but discipline only could have caused that magnificent charge of Dale’s Highlanders at a time when they very well knew the battle was lost and the way in which they were to go was strewn with the bodies of those who had gone before. THE FALSE FRANCISCO By William A. Branan Jones felt bad about it. Demurely distant, she sat in the patio of her father’s _casa_, black of eye and red of lip, the most interesting sight he had seen south of the Rio Grande; and not a decent word could he say to her in her own language. For Jones had never been in Mexico before—nor did his course at Columbia embrace the study of Spanish. Had his knowledge of baseball, football and highballs been a source of honor, no doubt he would have graduated at the head of his class; but to his everlasting shame be it said, he was sadly deficient in the languages. So he gave vent to a few remarks of some warmth—in English, of course, confident that the little _señorita_ would not detect the quality of his foreign expressions. Now, Jones was not in Chihuahua for his health, either in the strict or common usage of the word; in fact, his shoulders were rather broad for his height, and the healthy color of his cheek carried no sign of affliction. And as for the other use of the word, Jones had departed from his home in the States with ease and without undue haste—nor had a description of his person been wired to the Mexican officials on his departure. But Jones was a tourist in the truest sense. He had nowhere in particular to go, and he took his time to get there. In less than three days after his arrival in Chihuahua he was worse than a _peon_ about the sunny side of the house; in less than a week he had caught the spirit of _mañana_ and could lie like a native when the occasion required; in truth, he was an idler in an idle land. After a few days in Chihuahua Jones had secured apartments at a Mexican hotel of the smaller sort, the better to get in touch with the language and customs of the people as soon as possible. His landlord was one of the wiry, working class of Mexicans, with a genial smile that never called for less than _un peso_; but it was the landlord’s dark-eyed daughter who caught the eye of Jones.