_December 17_.--Cool, with a hazy sky. While standing in one of the
corridors this morning, a procession of females passed by me, headed by
a lady of fine appearance and dressed with remarkable taste and
neatness, compared with those who followed her. Their _rebosos_
concealed the faces of most of them, except the leader, whose beautiful
features, dare say, she thought (and justly) required no concealment.
They proceeded to the quarters of Colonel Fremont, and their object, I
understood, was to petition for the reprieve or pardon of Pico, who had
been condemned to death by the court-martial yesterday, and whose
execution was expected to take place this morning. Their intercession
was successful, as no execution took place, and in a short time all the
prisoners were discharged, and the order to saddle up and march given.
We resumed our march at ten o'clock, and encamped just before sunset in
a small but picturesque and fertile valley timbered with oak, so near
the coast that the roar of the surf breaking against the shore could be
heard distinctly. Distance seven miles.
_December 18_.
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