Page:Face to Face With the Mexicans.djvu/590

584 painter, passionately clung to me, his great liquid eyes looking lovingly into mine as he whispered his broken adios between his sobs. He was the child type of the warm friends of maturer years whom I was leaving.

The sun was setting behind the distant blue mountains; strains of sweet minstrelsy floated on the evening breeze; the panorama of singular characters passed me on their accustomed rounds. As the train moved gently along, I peered back and saw the distant lights gleaming in the city, and heard the long-drawn sweet tones of the evening bugle call, that seemed, as it dwelt on its last notes, to hold me bound in sweetest music, bidding me a yet more sorrowful farewell.