stamp are the figures reclining before us. These are improvised
warriors, _hateros_, cattle-farmers, who, grasping their lances and
lassos, have eagerly exchanged the monotony of pastoral life for the
wild excitement of the charge upon Spanish squadrons, and the ferocious
slaughter of fellow-men. No two of this invincible band are clad
alike. Here is a sergeant, wearing an old and dilapidated blanket
poncho-fashion, with the remains of a palm-leaf hat sheltering his head,
and with limbs which a pair of ragged _calzones_ make only a pretence of
covering. Yet over his left shoulder is slung a gorgeous hussar jacket,
which he wears with the greater pride since it belonged last night to a
lieutenant in the Queen's regiment, whom he slew in cold blood after the
fight! Next to him leans a private, bare-legged and bare-headed, wearing
only an old piece of carpet about his waist, a flannel shirt, and the
uniform coat of a Spanish officer, from which he has cut the right
sleeve in order to secure greater freedom for his arm. A third has made
himself a suit which Robinson Crusoe might have envied. Helmet, jerkin,
breeches, sandals, all have been cut from the same raw bull's hide! His
neighbor, a new recruit, still wears the national dress of his order,
which has not yet been tattered and torn from him by long service; and
he is the envy of the motley troop. But the lack of uniformity in no
wise detracts from valor, nor does it diminish the gayety of these
terrible lancers as they lie idly grouped about the flickering fires.
Half-a-dozen circles are absorbed in as many games at cards; others
are swallowing greedily some improvised fantastic tale; and some are
singing, in wild, irregular cadence, the favorite songs of the Plains.
Their example soon becomes contagious, and group after group chimes in
with the uproarious chant. Listen! From the farthest extremity of the
encampment comes a querying solo:--

"De todos los Generales cual es el valiente?"