their white shirts. Most of them wore only loose calzoneras, and many,
according to the Mexican custom, were accompanied by their women.
Apparently undrilled, or, at least, tramping on with scarcely an attempt
at order, and seen in the half-shadow cast by the houses upon the
moonlit street, their loose ranks reminded one more of the immigration
of some ancient barbaric horde than of the march of a modern army.

I shall never forget the impressions of that night. The picturesqueness
of the scene was not lessened by the element of personal interest that
attached to it. What did this portend--this ragged remnant of a defeated
army hurrying through the capital in the dead of night? Were the French
approaching, driving it before them? Was it intended to garrison the
city, and here to make the last stand in defense of the republic and of
Mexican liberty? Or, on the contrary, was it beating a retreat into the
interior of the country, making way for the advent of the foreigner and
monarchy and priest rule?

The next day (May 31, 1863) an unusual stir was noticeable in the city.
The air was all aglow with excitement. Horsemen were galloping in the
streets leading pack-mules, and the sleepy town seemed full of bustle
and animation. As we stood at our balcony, we saw many acquaintances,
apparently equipped for a journey, speeding past, with a wave of the
hand as a last farewell; and soon the attache of the American legation
dropped in with a message from Mr. Corwin to the effect that President
Juarez and his government were leaving the city.

The exodus of the previous night was thus explained. The remnants of
General Comonfort's and General Ortega's armies had fallen back to serve
as an escort for the government in its flight. The city was now without
an administration, without a police, without an army. It was left