But the evil genius of Don Cornelio was yet by his side; and, at the moment when he was about opening his lips to deny all complicity with the enemies of Spain, his senses again gave way; and, without knowing what came out of his mouth, he cried in a loud voice, "_Viva Mexico, muera el tyran_!" Then, overcome by the effort, he staggered back to his couch. This time his syncope was of short duration. On recovering his senses, he perceived that his bed was surrounded by armed men; who, judging from their looks and speeches, were examining him with more than ordinary interest. Among others he recognised the voice of Morelos himself! "How can one explain this sudden sympathy with our cause?" Morelos was inquiring. "It seems as if the young man was under the hallucination of his fever?" "Something more than that, General," suggested an officer of the name of Valdovinos. "If the most ardent patriotism was not boiling at the bottom, the foam would not thus rise to the surface." "No matter!" rejoined Morelos, "but I cannot think that my ascendancy--" A new-comer interrupted the speech of the _cura_ of Caracuaro, just as Lantejas had got his eyes fairly open. This was a man of robust and vigorous appearance, with a noble martial air, and a bold open countenance. His large beard, and hair slightly grizzled, betrayed his age to be somewhere near fifty. "And why not, General?" said he, taking hold of the hand which Morelos stretched out to him. "Why should not this brave young man have submitted to your ascendancy at first sight, just as I have done? It is only this morning I have seen you for the first time, and yet you have no follower more devoted than myself. I shall answer for this young stranger. He is one of us, beyond doubt." As the new-comer pronounced these words, he cast upon Lantejas a glance so winning and at the same time so severe, that it completely subjugated the spirit of the student with a sort of invincible charm, and hindered him from making any attempt to contradict the engagement which was thus made in his name. On the contrary, he rather confirmed it with an involuntary gesture, which he could not restrain himself from making. The man who had thus intervened was he whom historians delight to call _the grand, the terrible, the invincible Hermenegildo Galeana_--the Murat of the Mexican revolution; he who afterwards, in more than a hundred actions, was seen to place his lance in rest, and dash into the thickest of the enemy's lines, like a god of battles, vociferating his favourite war-cry, _Aqui esta Galeana_! (Here comes Galeana!) A redoubtable enemy--a friend tender and devoted--such was Don Hermenegildo Galeana. More fortunate than Murat, Galeana met his death on the battle-field, in the midst of hosts slain by his own hand. Still more fortunate than the French warrior, he died faithful to the principles as well as to the inn to whom he had consecrated his life.