Summary

Portrait of Mayne Reid Mayne Reid The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

In a score of seconds I was standing by the side of the prostrate Jarocho, bending over his body. I held the pistol in my hand, my finger still pressing upon the trigger, just as after firing the shot that had disembarrassed him of his enemy.
“Are you safe?” I inquired, in the best Mexican-Spanish I could command. “He has not succeeded in—?”
“Strike, villain! through my heart, if you will. Ah! Dolores! Better my death, and yours—better far be in your grave than in the embrace of Ramon Rayas! O Santissima Madre!—I die—I die! Mother of God protect—Lola!—Lolita! quer-i-da herm...”
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Mayne Reid Mayne Reid The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

Yes, fair as the mother of men—it is no exaggeration to say it—was she who, answering my summons, had emerged from the shadowy chapparal, and now stood exposed to my view under the full light of the moon. It was a full moon—a Mexican moon, that delights to shine upon lovely woman; and no lovelier could its beams have ever embraced than she who now stood before me.
It was beauty of a type peculiar to the land in which I viewed it—peculiar even to a single province—the tierra caliente, or coast-region, of Vera Cruz.
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of Mayne Reid Mayne Reid The Guerilla Chief, and Other Tales

I am only a poor Jarocho—owning nothing but my rancho, a few varas of garden-ground, my horse, my saddle, and my macheté. I was going to say my liberty, but that’s not true: else why am I dragged from my home to fight battles in which I have no interest? You may say what our military oppressors say—it is to fight for my country. Bah! what use in spilling one’s blood for a country that’s not free? It isn’t for that I’ve been brought to Cerro Gordo, and shot down like a dog. It was to fight for a tyrant, not for a country—for El Cojo, and nobody else!
Source: Gutenberg

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