too generously perhaps, to offer an armistice to his vanquished foe.  It was eagerly accepted, and negotiations were commenced which lasted over a fortnight.  In the mean time General Scott had the satisfaction of hanging several of the Irishmen who had deserted to the Mexicans, and, serving as the battalion of San Patricio, had shot down so many of their old comrades at Buena Vista and Churubusco.  This act of justice was approved by the army and the nation.  Early in September the treachery of the Mexicans became apparent.  No progress had been made in the negotiations; and, in defiance of the armistice, an American wagon, proceeding to the city for provisions, had been attacked by the mob and one man killed and others wounded.  Scott wrote to Santa Anna, demanding an apology, and threatening to terminate the armistice on the 7th if it were not tendered.  The reply was insulting in the extreme; Santa Anna had repaired his losses and was ready for another fight.

On the evening of September 7th Worth and his officers were gathered in his quarters at Tacubaya.  On a table lay a hastily sketched map showing the position of the fortified works at Molino del Rey, with the Casa Mata on one side and the castle of Chapultepec on the other.  The Molino was occupied by the enemy; there was reason to believe it contained a foundry in full operation, and Worth had been directed to storm it next morning.  Over that table bent Garland and Clarke, eager to repeat the glorious deeds of August 20th at the tete de pont of Churubusco; Duncan and Smith, already veterans; Wright, the leader of the forlorn hope, joyfully thinking of the morrow; famous Martin Scott, and dauntless Graham, little dreaming that a few hours would see their livid corpses stretched upon the plain; fierce old M’Intosh, covered with scars; Worth himself, his manly brow clouded, and his cheek paled by sickness and anxiety.  Each officer had his place assigned to him in the conflict; and they parted to seek a few hours’ rest.

At half-past two on the morning of the 8th the division was astir.  ’Twas a bright starlight night whose silence was unbroken as the troops moved thoughtfully toward the battlefield.  In front, on the right, about a mile from the encampment, the hewn-stone walls of the Molino del Rey—­a range of buildings five hundred yards long, and well adapted for defence—­were distinctly visible, with drowsy lights twinkling through the windows.  A little farther off, on the left, stood the black pile of the Casa Mata, the arsenal, crenelled for musketry, and surrounded by a quadrangular field work.  Beyond the Casa Mata lay a ravine, and from this a ditch and hedge ran, passing in front of both works, to the Tacubaya road.  Far on the right the grim old castle of Chapultepec loomed up darkly against the sky.  Sleep wrapped the whole Mexican line, and but few words were spoken in the American ranks as the troops took up their respective positions:  Garland, with Dunn’s battery and Huger’s 24-pounders, on the right, against the Molino; Wright, at the head of the stormers, and followed by the light division under Captain Kirby Smith, in the centre; M’Intosh, with Duncan’s battery, on the left, near the ravine looking toward the Casa Mata; and Cadwallader, with his brigade, in reserve.