and the filled-up abysses, still attest the ancient grandeur of the old masters of Mexico. This bridge is now called the Puente Nacional.[1]
Vera Cruz is only about forty miles from the Puente Nacional; but since our departure from Jalapa, the heat had become gradually overpowering. Storm snuffed up with delight the burning wind which imbrowned the grass; it reminded him of the hot breezes of the savannas. It was the first time for five years that he had bathed in the rays of a sun similar to that of his distant querencia, and his joy was manifested by his wild neighing. Love, on the contrary, her tongue lolling out, and her chest heaving, sought in vain for some drops of dew in the midst of a vegetation parched and withered by the heat of such a sun.
Fatigued by a ride which had lasted longer than I had anticipated, I pulled up for an instant. I had not intended that my halt should be long, as I wished to reach Vera Cruz that evening, leaving my servant to follow next morning if his horse could not keep up with mine; but Fate had decreed otherwise. Cecilio, who had lagged behind, came up at the very moment I was going to start. The sweat was rolling in beaded drops from his burning brow, and his face, ordinarily so calm and placid, wore an appearance of extreme uneasiness. He shuffled up alongside of me. I was doubly surprised. It was the first time that he had ever shown himself wanting in respect, and the effort he now made to keep his horse close to mine was quite without precedent.
"Señor," said Cecilio to me, "if the accounts I have picked up on the road are to be relied on, we
- ↑ Before the independence of Mexico this bridge was called Puente del Key (the King's Bridge).
