He fell asleep to the tinkling of Almonte's
guitar. They started again at earliest dawn, descended the slopes into a
highway to Vera Cruz, and pushed on in the trail of Cos. Ned still rode
his burro, which trotted along faithfully with the best, and he kept an
eager eye for the road and all that lay along it. The silent youth had
learned the value of keen observation, and he never neglected it.
Before noon Ned saw a dim, white cone rising on the eastern horizon. It
was far away and misty, a thing of beauty which seemed to hang in the
air above the clouds.
"Orizaba, the great mountain!" said Almonte.
Ned had seen Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl, but this was a shade loftier
and more beautiful than either, shooting up nearly four miles, and
visible to sailors far out at sea. It grew in splendor as they
approached. Great masses of oak and pine hung on its lofty sides, up the
height of three miles, and above the forest rose the sharp cone,
gleaming white with snow. The face of Juan Nepomuceno Almonte flushed as
he gazed at it.
"It is ours, the great mountain!" he exclaimed. "And the many other
magnificent mountains and the valleys and rivers of Mexico. Can you
wonder, then, Edward Fulton, that we Mexicans do not wish to lose any
part of our country? Texas is ours, it has always been ours, and we will
not let the Texans sever it from us!"
"The Texans have not wished to do so," said Ned.
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