The Rebel Chief by Gustave Aimard

Reddish tints were striping the snowy peaks of the Popocatepetl, the last stars were expiring in the heavens, and opaline gleams were tinting the summit of the buildings; day was just beginning to break. Mexico was still sleeping; its silent streets were only disturbed at long intervals by the hurried footfalls of a few Indians arriving from the neighbouring pueblos to sell their fruit and vegetables. A few pulqueros' shops alone timidly set their doors ajar, and were preparing to serve to the early customers the dose of strong liquor, that _obligado_ prologue of every day's work. Half past four struck from the _sagrario_; at this moment a horseman emerged from the Calle de Tacuba, crossed the Plaza Mayor at a sharp trot, and pulled up right in front of the gates of the palace of the presidency, which were guarded by two sentries.

"Who goes there? " one of them shouted.