Evening
A quiet day, but we are distressed beyond words at the renewed reports of a lifting of the embargo on arms and ammunition for the rebels. I feel as if I couldn’t stand it, and N. even felt that he ought to resign if it happens. The ship of state is going so inevitably on the rocks. He will make some sort of protest to Washington against the advisability of this move. Villa’s cry is “On to Mexico,” and he may get there, or rather, here—if we decide to carry him.
It appears that he is becoming daily more intoxicated by the favors of the United States. No one is more surprised than he at his success with the powers that be, and as for the vogue he has with the confidential agents, they tell me his face is one broad grin whenever their names are mentioned. However, this doesn’t mean he is going to try to please them. Just now he wants Huerta’s head, but that foxy old head can have asylum here. Shouts and shots were heard an hour or so ago, but probably only from some Zapatistas near town.