passed to the rear that Miller had come in touch with Garcia's scouts.
A half hour later, we marched into the camp of the revolutionists. It
was situated about three miles outside of Santa Barbara, on the banks
of the river where the trail crossed it at a ford. Our fellows made a
rather fine appearance as they rode out of the jungle among the
revolutionists; and, considering the fact that we had come to fight
for them, I thought the little beggars might have given us a cheer,
but they only stared at us, and nodded stupidly. They were a mixed
assortment, all of them under-size and either broad or swarthy, with
the straight hair and wide cheek-bones of the Carib Indian, or slight
and nervous looking, with the soft eyes and sharp profile of the
Spaniard. The greater part of them had deserted in companies from the
army, and they still wore the blue-jean uniform and carried the rifle
and accoutrements of the Government. To distinguish themselves from
those soldiers who had remained with Alvarez, they had torn off the
red braid with which their tunics were embroidered.

All the officers of the Foreign Legion rode up the stream with
Laguerre to meet General Garcia, whom we found sitting in the shade of
his tent surrounded by his staff. He gave us a most enthusiastic
greeting, embracing the General, and shaking hands with each of us in
turn. He seemed to be in the highest state of excitement, and bustled
about ordering us things to drink, and chattering, gesticulating, and
laughing. He reminded me of a little, fat French poodle trying to
express his delight by bounds and barks. They brought us out a great
many bottles of rum and limes, and we all had a long, deep drink.
After the fatigue and dust of the day, it was the best I ever tasted.
Garcia's officers seemed just as much excited over nothing as he was,
but were exceedingly friendly, treating us with an exaggerated
"comrades-in-arms" and "brother-officers" sort of manner. The young