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Updated: June 9, 2025
Jesus was crying, "El Chino muerte." I hurried down to the field where Mabot stood and found him gazing at the Chinaman, who was lying face downward near the fence, quite dead. By the smell and the general lay-out, I reckoned he had been dead some three days.
Then Leandro bounded back, made his way through the people and landed here again; he was going to escape through the Paseo de las Acacias when he stumbled against La Muerte, who began to call him names. Leandro stopped, looked in every direction; nobody dared to get near him; his eyes were blazing. Suddenly he jabbed the knife into his left side I don't know how many times.
Ranged about the room were a dozen or more rawhide-seated chairs, each standing stiffly at "attention" against the wall scrupulously equidistant order. Glaring at me in crude lettering from a broad rafter facing the door was the grimly patriotic sentiment, "Libertad o Muerte." From the headpost of the cot dangled a sword and two pistols.
"To see if that Valencia continues to put on airs when I'm around." They crossed the wired-off surrounding path. Leandro, taking long strides, was very soon in Las Injurias. Manuel could hardly keep up with him. They entered Blasa's tavern; the same men as on the previous night were playing cane near the stove. Of the women, only La Paloma and La Muerte were in.
As Don Carlos died on July 24, 1568, the Cancion a la muerte de don Carlos and the Epitafio al túmulo del príncipe don Carlos must necessarily have been composed after that date; that is, when Luis de Leon was just forty and had left his niñez far behind him.
While crossing the Jornado del Muerte, he and one or two confederates, whom he had put up to his plan, disguised themselves as Apache Indians, attacked their fellow sheep-drivers, murdered them, and made themselves masters of the flock.
Death Valley, or the Arroyo del Muerte, as the Spanish called it, is in the western part of southern California, near the oblique boundary of Nevada, a little way north of Nevada's vanishing point. Nowadays one may ride almost into the valley in a Pullman coach.
Guerra y muerte á tiranos y esclavos, Guerra y despues habra paz! Himno de Valladolíd. It still wanted an hour of daybreak, on the 16th day of July 1835, when the stillness, that during the previous four or five hours had reigned undisturbed in the quiet streets of Artajona, was broken by the clang of the diana.
They find that the Spanish races of Central America have learned bitter lessons from the loss of Texas. They know of the brutal conquest of California. The cry of "Muerte los Americanos!" rings from Tucson to Darien. The labors of conquest are harder now for the self-elected generalissimos of these robber bands.
The following morning, Guy de Lissac found in his mail a brief note, sealed with the arms of the duke, with the motto: Hasta la muerte. José wrote to him as he was leaving Paris: "You are perhaps right. I am a little intoxicated with Parisine. I am going to London to visit a friend and if I ever recount my voyages there, it will only be to the serious-minded members of the Geographical Society.
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