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INEZ 
 
 A TALE OF THE ALAMO 
 
 BY 
 
 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 
 
 Author of “ Beulah." “ St. Elmo,” “ Inf slue” “ Mtuario” Etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
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INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 u But O, th’ important budget! 
 
 Who can say what are its tidings ?" 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 “ There is the bell for prayers, Florry ; are you ready ? * 
 said Mary Irving, hastily entering her cousin’s room at the 
 large boarding-school of Madame-. 
 
 “ Yes ; I rose earlier than usual this morning, have solved 
 two problems, and translated nearly half a page of Tele- 
 maque.” 
 
 “ I congratulate you on your increased industry and ap¬ 
 plication, though you were always more studious than my¬ 
 self. I wish, dear Florry, you could imbue me with some of 
 your fondness for metaphysics and mathematics,” Mary 
 replied, with a low sigh. 
 
 A momentary flush passed over the face of her compan¬ 
 ion, and they descended the stairs in silence. The room in 
 which the pupils were accustomed to assemble for devotion 
 was not so spacious as the class-room, yet sufficiently so to 
 look gloomy enough in the gray light of a drizzling morn. 
 The floor was covered with a faded carpet, in which the in¬ 
 distinct vine seemed struggling to reach the wall, but failed 
 by several feet on either side. As if to conceal this defi¬ 
 ciency, a wide seat was affixed the entire length of the room, 
 so high 
 
 % 
 
 “ That the feet hung dangling down, 
 
 Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.” 
 
 There were no curtains to the windows, and the rain nat¬ 
 tered drearily down the panes. 
 
1 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 The teacher who officiated as chaplain was seated before 
 a large desk, on which lay an open Bible. He seemed about 
 twenty-four, his countenance noble rather than handsome, if 
 • I may make so delicate a distinction. Intelligence of the 
 first order was stamped upon it, yet the characteristic ex* 
 pression was pride which sat enthroned on his prominent 
 brow; still, hours of care had left their impress, and the face 
 was very grave, though by no means stern. His eye was 
 fixed on the door as the pupils came in, one by one, for 
 prayers, and when Florence and Mary entered, it sunk upon 
 his book. In a few moments he rose, and, standing with 
 one arm folded across his bosom, read in a deep, distinct 
 tone, that beautiful Psalm, “ The Lord is my shepherd.” He 
 had only reached the fourth verse, when he was interrupted 
 by two girls of twelve or fourteen, who had been conversing 
 from the moment of their entrance. The tones grew louder 
 and louder, and now the words were very audible: 
 
 “ My father did not send me here to come to prayers, and 
 Madame has no right to make us get up before day to hear 
 him read his Bible ! ” 
 
 Many who coincided with them tittered, others stared in 
 silence, while Florence’s lip curled, and Mary looked sorrow* 
 ingly, pityingly upon them—hers was the expression with 
 which the angel multitudes of Heaven regard their erring 
 brethren here. The chaplain turned toward them, and said, 
 in a grave yet gentle voice, “ My little friends, I am afraid 
 you did not kneel beside your bed this morning, and ask God 
 to keep your hearts from sinful thoughts, and enable you to 
 perform all your duties in a humble, gentle spirit. In your 
 present temper, were I to read the entire book instead of 
 one Psalm, I fear you would receive no benefit.” 
 
 The girls were awed more by the tone than words, and sat 
 silent and abashed. The reading was concluded, and then 
 he offered up a prayer earnest and heartfelt. Instead of 
 }eaving the room immediately, the pupils waited as for some¬ 
 thing, and taking a bundle of letters from the desk, their 
 tutor distributed them as the direction indicated. 
 
 “ My budget is not so large as usual, and I regret it for 
 your sakes, as I fear some are disappointed. Miss Hamil¬ 
 ton, here are two for you; ” and he handed them to her 
 without looking up. 
 
*NEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 3 
 
 « Two for Florry, and none for me ? ” asked Mary, while 
 her voice slightly trembled. He was leaving the room, but 
 turned toward her. 
 
 “ I am very sorry, Miss Mary, but hope you will find a 
 comforting message in your cousin’s.” 
 
 Gently he spoke, yet his eyes rested on Florence the while, 
 and, with a suppressed sigh, he passed on. “ Come to my 
 room, Mary; it is strange the letters are postmarked the 
 same day.” And while she solves the mystery, let us glance 
 at her former history. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 *Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
 
 Fair spirit! rest thee now! 
 
 Ev’n while with us thy footsteps trod, 
 
 His seal was on thy brow.” 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 Florence Hamilton had but attained her fourth year 
 when she was left the only solace of her widowed father. 
 Even after the lapse of long years, faint, yet sweet recollec¬ 
 tions of her lost parent stole, in saddened hours, over her 
 spirit, and often, in dreams, a face of angelic beauty hovered 
 around, and smiled upon her. 
 
 Unfortunately, Florence proved totally unlike her sainted 
 mother, both in personal appearance and cast of character. 
 Mr. Hamilton was a cold, proud man of the world; one who, 
 having lived from his birth in affluence, regarded with a 
 haughty eye all whr, without the advantages of rank or 
 wealth, strove to attain a position equal to his own. Intel¬ 
 ligence, nobility of soul, unsullied character, weighed not an 
 atom against the counterpoise of birth and family. He en¬ 
 joyed in youth advantages rare for the unsettled times in 
 which he lived; he tasted all that France and Italy could 
 offer; and returned blase at twenty-seven to his home in one 
 of the Southern States. Attracted by the brilliant fortune of 
 an orphan heiress, he won and married her; but love, such 
 as her pure, gentle spirit sought, dwelt not in his stern, self- 
 
♦ 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 ish heart. All of affection he had to bestow was lavished 
 on his only sister, who had married during his absence. 
 
 His angel wife drooped in the sterile soil to which she 
 was transplanted, and, when Florence was about four years 
 old, sunk into a quiet grave. 
 
 Perhaps when he stood with his infant daughter beside 
 the newly-raised mound, and missed the gentle being who 
 had endeavored so strenuously to make his home happy, 
 and to win for herself a place in his heart, one tear might 
 have moistened the cold, searching eyes that for years had 
 known no such softening tendency. “ Perhaps,” I say ; but 
 to conjecture of thee, oh Man ! is fruitless indeed. 
 
 As well as such a nature could, he loved his child, and 
 considered himself extremely magnanimous in casting aside 
 all thought of a second marriage, and devoting his leisure 
 moments to the formation of her character, and direction of 
 her education. 
 
 Florence inherited her father’s haughty temperament 
 without his sordid selfishness, and what may seem incom¬ 
 patible with the former, a glowing imagination in connec¬ 
 tion with fine mental powers. To all but Mr. Hamilton she 
 appeared as cold and impenetrable as himself ; but the flash¬ 
 ing eye and curling lip with which she listened to a tale of 
 injustice, or viewed a dishonorable act, indicated a nature 
 truly noble. Two master passions ruled her heart—love for 
 her parent, and fondness for books. Idolized by the house¬ 
 hold, it was not strange that she soon learned to consider 
 herself the most important member of it. Mr. Hamilton 
 found that it was essential for the proper regulation of his 
 establishment that some lady should preside over its various 
 departments, and accordingly invited the maiden sister of 
 his late wife to make his house her home, and take charge of 
 his numerous domestics. 
 
 Of his daughter he said nothing. Aunt Lizzy, as she was 
 called, was an amiable, good woman, but not sufficiently in¬ 
 tellectual to superintend Florry’s education. That little in¬ 
 dividual looked at first with distrustful eyes on one who, she 
 supposed, might abridge her numerous privileges ; but the 
 affectionate manner of the kind-hearted aunt removed all 
 fear, and she soon spoke and moved with the freedom which 
 had characterized her solitude. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 5 
 
 One day, when Florence was about nine years old, her 
 lather entered the library, where she sat intently reading, 
 and said, 
 
 “ Florence, come here, I have something to tell you.” 
 
 “ Something to tell me ! I hope it is pleasant; ” and she 
 laid her hand on his knee, and looked inquiringly in his face. 
 
 “ You remember the cousin Mary, whose father died not 
 long ago ? Well, she has lost her mother too, and is coming 
 to live with us.” As he spoke, his voice faltered, and his 
 proud curling lip quivered, yet he gave no other evidence of 
 the deepest grief he had known for many years. 
 
 “ She will be here this evening, and I hope you will try 
 to make her contented.” With these words he was leaving 
 the room but Florence said, 
 
 “ Father, is she to stay with us always, and will she sleep 
 in my room, with me ? ” 
 
 “ She will live with us as long as she likes, and, if you 
 prefer it, can occupy the same room.” 
 
 The day wore on, and evening found her on the steps, 
 looking earnestly down the avenue for the approach of the 
 little stranger. 
 
 At length a heavy carriage drove to the door, and Florry 
 leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the inmate’s face. A 
 slight form, clad in deep mourning, was placed on the piazza 
 by the coachman. 
 
 Mr. Hamilton shook her hand kindly, and, after a few 
 words of welcome, said, 
 
 “ Here is your cousin Florence, Mary. I hope you will 
 love each other, and be happy, good little girls.” Mary 
 looked almost fearfully at her proud young cousin, but the 
 sight of her own pale, tearful face touched Florry’s heart, 
 and she threw her arms round her neck and kissed her. 
 The embrace was unexpected, and Mary wept bitterly. 
 
 “ Florence, why don’t you take Mary to her room ? ” 
 
 “ Would you like to go up-stairs, cousin ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes ! if you please, I had much rather.” And tak¬ 
 ing her basket from her hand, Florry led the way. 
 
 Mary took off her bonnet, and turned to look again at her 
 cousin. Their eyes met; but, as if overcome by some sud¬ 
 den recollection, she buried her face in her hands and burst 
 again into tears. 
 
t a‘A EZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Florence stood for some time in silence, at length she said 
 gently, 
 
 “ It is almost tea-time, and father will be angry if he sees 
 you have been crying.” 
 
 “ Oh! I can’t help it, indeed I can’t,” sobbed the little 
 mourner, “ he is so much like my dear, darling mother; ” 
 and she stifled a cry of agony. 
 
 “ Is my father like your mother, cousin Mary ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes! When he spoke to me just now, I almost 
 thought it was mother.” 
 
 A tear rolled over Florry’s cheek, and she slowly replied, 
 “ I wish I knew somebody that looked like my mother.” 
 In that hour was forged the chain which bound them through 
 life, and made them one in interest. 
 
 Years rolled on, and found Mary happy in her adopted 
 home. If her uncle failed to caress her as her loving heart 
 desired, she did not complain, for she was treated like her 
 cousin, and found in the strong love of Florence an antidote 
 for every care. Mary was about sixteen, and Florence a few 
 months younger, at the time our story opens, and had been 
 placed in New Orleans to acquire French and music, as good 
 masters could not be obtained nearer home. We have seen 
 them there, and, hoping the reader will pardon this digres¬ 
 sion, return to Florry’s letter. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 “ Philosophy can hold an easy triumph over past and future misfor¬ 
 tunes ; but those which are present, triumph over her.” 
 
 Rochefoucault. 
 
 A striking difference in personal appearance was pre¬ 
 sented by the cousins, as they stood together. Florence, 
 though somewhat younger, was taller by several inches, and 
 her noble and erect carriage, in connection with the haughty 
 manner in which her head was thrown back, added in effect 
 to her height. Her hair and eyes were brilliant black, the 
 latter particularly thoughtful in their expression. The fore- 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 7 
 
 head was not remarkable for height, but was unusually 
 prominent and white, and almost overhung the eyes. The 
 mouth was perfect, the lips delicately chiseled, and curving 
 beautifully toward the full dimpled chin. The face, though 
 intellectual, and artistically beautiful, was not prepossessing. 
 The expression was cold and haughty ; and for this reason 
 she had received the appellations of “ Minerva ” and “ Juno/’ 
 such being considered by her fellow-pupils as singularly 
 appropriate. 
 
 Mary, on the contrary, was slight and drooping, and her 
 sweet, earnest countenance, elicited the love of the beholder, 
 even before an intimate acquaintance had brought to view 
 the beautiful traits of her truly amiable character. 
 
 And yet these girls, diametrically opposed in disposition, 
 clung to each other with a strength of affection only to be 
 explained by that strongest of all ties, early association. 
 
 Florence broke the seal of her letter, and Mary walked to 
 the window. It looked out on a narrow street, through which 
 drays rattled noisily, and occasional passengers picked their 
 way along its muddy crossings. 
 
 Mary stood watching the maneuvers of a little girl, who 
 was endeavoring to pass dry-shod, when a low groan startled 
 her; and turning quickly, she perceived Florence standing 
 in the center of the room, the letter crumpled in one hand: 
 her face had grown very pale, and the large eyes gleamed 
 strangely. 
 
 “ Oh ! Florry, what is the matter ? Is your father ill— 
 dead—tell me quick ? ” and imploringly she clasped her 
 hands. 
 
 Florence made a powerful effort, and spoke, in her usual 
 tone: 
 
 “ I was foolish to give way to my feelings, even for a 
 moment—my father is well.” She paused, and then added, 
 as if painfully, “ But, oh! he is almost penniless ! ” 
 
 “ Penniless ! ” echoed Mary, as though she could not com¬ 
 prehend her cousin’s meaning. 
 
 “ Yes, Mary, he has been very unfortunate in his specu¬ 
 lations, obliged to sell our plantation and negroes, and now, 
 he says, 1 a few paltry thousands only remain ; ’ but, oh l 
 that is not the worst; I wish it were, he has sold out every¬ 
 thing. broken every tie, and will be here this evening on his 
 
8 
 
 . H TALE OF THE ALA Mi, 
 
 way to Texas. He writes that I must be ready to accom* 
 pany him to-morrow night.” 
 
 She paused, as if unwilling to add something which must 
 be told, and looked sadly at her cousin. 
 
 Mary understood the glance. 
 
 “ Florry, there is something in the letter relating to myself, 
 which you withhold for fear of giving me pain: the sooner 
 I learn it the better.” 
 
 “ Mary, here is a letter inclosed for you; but first hear 
 what my father says,” and hurriedly she read as follows: 
 
 .“ With regard to Mary, it cannot be expected 
 
 that she should wish to accompany us on our rugged path, 
 and bitterly, bitterly do I regret our separation. Her pa¬ 
 ternal uncle, now in affluence, has often expressed a desire 
 to have her with him, and, since my misfortunes, has writ¬ 
 ten me, offering her a home in his family. Every luxury 
 and advantage afforded by wealth can still be hers. Did I 
 not feel that she would be benefited by this separation, 
 nothing could induce me to part with her, but, under exist¬ 
 ing circumstances, I can consent to give her up.” 
 
 Florence flung the letter from her as she concluded, and 
 approaching her cousin, clasped her arms fondly about her. 
 Mary had covered her face with her hands, and the tears 
 glistened on her slender fingers. 
 
 “ Oh, Florry, you don’t know how pained and hurt I am, 
 that uncle should think I could be so ungrateful as to forget, 
 in the moment of adversity, his unvaried kindness for six 
 long years. Oh 1 it is cruel in him to judge me so harshly,” 
 and she sobbed aloud. 
 
 “ I will not be left, I will go with him, that is if—-if— 
 Florry, tell me candidly, do you think he has any other rea¬ 
 son for not taking me, except my fancied dislike to leaving 
 this place—tell me ? ” 
 
 “ No, dear Mary; if he thought you preferred going with 
 us, no power on earth could induce him to leave you.” 
 
 Mary placed her hand in her cousin’s, and murmured, 
 
 “ Florry, I will go with you; your home shall be my home, 
 and your sorrows my sorrows.” 
 
 A flash of joy irradiated Florence’s pale face as she re¬ 
 turned her cousin’s warm embrace. 
 
 “ With you, Mary, to comfort and assist me, I feat 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 9 
 
 nothing; but you have not yet read your uncle’s letter, per¬ 
 haps its contents may influence your decision.” 
 
 Mary perused it in silence, and then put it in her cousin’s 
 hand, while the tears rolled over her cheeks. 
 
 “ Mary, think well ere you reject this kind offer. Remem¬ 
 ber how earnestly he entreats that you will come and share 
 his love, his home, and his fortune. Many privations will 
 be ours, in the land to which we go, and numberless trials 
 assail the poverty-stricken. All these you can avoid, by ac« 
 cepting this very affectionate invitation. Think well, Mary, 
 lest in after-years you repent your hasty decision.” 
 
 There came a long pause, and hurriedly Florence paced 
 to and fro. Mary lifted her bowed head, and pushing back 
 her clustering hair, calmly replied, “ My heart swells with 
 gratitude toward my noble, generous uncle. Oh, how fer¬ 
 vently I can thank him for his proffered home l yet, sepa¬ 
 rated from you, dear Florry, I could not be happy; my heart 
 would ache for you, and your warm, trusting love. I fear 
 neither poverty nor hardships. Oh, let me go with you, and 
 cheer and assist my dear uncle ! ” 
 
 “ You shall go with us, my pure-hearted cousin. When 
 I'thought a moment since, of parting with you, my future 
 seemed gloomy indeed, but now I know that you will be 
 near, I am content.” 
 
 A short silence ensued, broken by a mournful exclama¬ 
 tion from Florence. 
 
 “ Ah! Mary, it is not for myself that I regret this change 
 of fortune, but for my proud, haughty father, who will suffer 
 so keenly. Oh, my heart aches when I think of him! ” 
 
 “ Florry, we must cheer him by those thousand little at- 
 attentions, which will lead him to forget his pecuinary 
 troubles.” 
 
 Florence shook her head. 
 
 “ You do not know my father as I do. He will have no 
 comforters, broods over difficulties in secret, and shrinks 
 from sympathy as from a ‘ scorching brand.’ ” 
 
 “ Still, I think we can do much to lighten his cares, and 
 I pray God I may not be mistaken, replied Mary.” 
 
 Florence lifted her head from her palm and gazed vacantly 
 at her cousin, then started from her seat. 
 
 “ Mary. must not sit here idly, when there is so much 
 
IO 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 to do. Madame - should know we leave to-morrow, 
 
 and it will take us all day to prepare for our journey.” 
 
 44 Do let me go and speak to Madame-; it will be 
 
 less unpleasant to me ? ” 
 
 44 No, no; I will go myself; they shall not think I feel it 
 so sensibly, and their condolence to-morrow would irritate 
 me beyond measure. I scorn such petty trials as loss of 
 fortune, and they shall know it.” 
 
 44 Who shall know it, Florry ? ” 
 
 Her cheek flushed, but without a reply she left the room, 
 
 and descended the steps which led to Madame-’s parlor. 
 
 Reaching the door, she drew herself proudly up, then 
 knocked. 
 
 44 Come in,” was the response. 
 
 She did so. In the center of the apartment, with an 
 open book on the table before him, sat the teacher who 
 officiated at prayers. He rose and bowed coldly in answer 
 to her salutation. 
 
 44 Pardon my intrusion, Mr. Stewart. I expected to find 
 Madame here.” 
 
 44 She has gohe to spend the morning with an invalid 
 sister, and requested me to take charge of her classes, in 
 addition to my own. If I can render you any assistance, 
 Miss Hamilton, I am at your service.” 
 
 44 Thank you, I am in need of no assistance, and merely 
 wished to say to Madame that I should leave New Orleans 
 to-morrow, having heard from my father that he will be here 
 in the evening boat.” 
 
 44 1 will inform her of your intended departure as early as 
 possible.” 
 
 44 You will oblige me by doing so,” replied Florence, turn¬ 
 ing to go. 
 
 44 Miss Hamilton, may I ask you if your cousin accom¬ 
 panies you ? ” 
 
 44 She does,” was the laconic answer, and slowly she re¬ 
 traced her steps, and stood at her own door. The cheeks 
 had become colorless, and the delicate lips writhed with 
 pain. She paused a moment, then entered. 
 
 44 Did you see her, Florry ? ” 
 
 44 No, she is absent, but I left word for her.” 
 
 Her tone was hard, dry, as though she had been striving 
 
II 
 
 sNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 long for some goal, which, when nearly attained, her failing 
 strength was scarce able to grasp. It was the echo of a 
 fearful struggle that had raged in her proud bosom. The 
 knell it seemed of expiring exertion, of sinking resistance. 
 Mary gazed sadly on her cousin, who stood mechanically 
 smoothing her glossy black hair. The haughty features 
 seemed chiseled in marble, so cold, stony was the expression. 
 
 “ Dear Florry ! you look harassed and weary already. 
 Why, why will you overtask your strength, merely to be called 
 a disciple of Zeno ? Surely you cannot seriously desire so 
 insignificant an honor, if it merits that title ? ” 
 
 44 Can, you, then, see no glory in crushing long-cherished 
 hopes—nay, when your heart is yearning toward some 
 4 bright particular ’ path, to turn without one symptom of 
 regret, and calmly tread one just the opposite ! Tell me, 
 can you perceive nothing elevating in this Stoical com¬ 
 mand ? ” 
 
 The cold, vacant look had passed away; her dark eyes 
 gleamed, glittered as with anticipated triumph. 
 
 44 Florry, I do not understand you exactly ; but I do know 
 that command of the heart is impossible, from the source 
 whence you draw. It may seem perfect control now, but 
 it will fail you in the dark hour of your need, if many trials 
 should assail. Oh! my cousin, do not be angry if I say 
 4 you have forsaken the fountain of living water, and hewn 
 out for yourself broken cisterns, which hold no water.’ Oh 1 
 Florry, before you take another step, return to Him, 4 who 
 has a balm for every wound.’ ” 
 
 Florence’s face softened ; an expression of relief began to 
 steal over her countenance; but as Mary ceased speaking, 
 she turned her face, beautiful in its angelic purity, full 
 upon her. A bitter smile curled Florence’s lip, and mutter¬ 
 ing hoarsely, 44 A few more hours and the struggle will be 
 over,” she turned to her bureau, and arranged her clothes 
 for packing. 
 
 The day passed in preparation, and twilight found the 
 cousins watching intently at the casement. The great clock 
 in the hall chimed out seven, the last stroke died away, and 
 then the sharp clang of the door-bell again broke silence. 
 They started to their feet, heard the street door open and 
 close —*then steps along the stairs, \iearer and nearer—then 
 
12 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 came a knock at the door. Mary opened it; the servant 
 handed in a card and withdrew. “ Mr. J. A. Hamilton.” 
 Florence passed out, Mary remained behind. 
 
 “ Come, why do you linger ? ” 
 
 “ I thought, Florry, you might wish to see him alone ; 
 perhaps he would prefer it.” 
 
 “ Mary, you have identified yourself with us. To my 
 father we must be as one.” She extended her hand, and 
 the next moment they stood in the reception-room. 
 
 The father and uncle were standing with folded arms, 
 looking down into the muddy street below. He advanced 
 to meet them, holding out a hand to each. Florence pressed 
 her lips to the one she held, and exclaimed, 
 
 “ My dear father, how glad I am to see you ! ” 
 
 “ Glad to see me ! You did not receive my letters then ? 
 
 “ Yes, I did, but are their contents and pleasure at meet¬ 
 ing you incompatible ? ” 
 
 He made no reply, and then Mary said, in a low, tremu¬ 
 lous tone, 
 
 “ Uncle, you have done me a great injury, and you must 
 make me all the reparation in your power. “ You said, in 
 your letter to Florry, that you did not think I would wish 
 to go with you. Oh, uncle ! you do not, cannot believe me 
 so ungrateful, so devoid of love as to wish, under any cir¬ 
 cumstances, to be separated from you. Now ease my heart, 
 and say I may share your new home. I should be very 
 miserable away from you.” 
 
 An expression of pleasure passed over his face, but again 
 the brow darkened. 
 
 “ Mary ! Florence is my child—my destiny hers, my mis¬ 
 fortunes hers ; but I have no right to drag you with me in 
 my fall; to deprive you of the many advantages that will 
 be afforded, by your uncle’s wealth, of the social position 
 you may one day attain.” 
 
 “ Uncle ! uncle ! am I not your child by adoption ? Have 
 you not loved and cared for me during long years ? Oh 1 
 what do I care for wealth—for what you call a high posi¬ 
 tion in the world ? You and Florry are my world.” Sh* 
 threw her arms about his neck, and sobbed, “ Take me! oh, 
 take me with you ! ” 
 
 “ If you so earnestly desire it, you shall indeed go with 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. .3 
 
 us, my Mary.” And, for the first time in her life, he im¬ 
 printed a kiss on her brow. 
 
 When he departed, it was with a promise to call for them 
 the next morning, that they might make, with their aunt, 
 some necessary purchases, and remove to a hotel near the 
 
 river. 
 
 Everything was packed the ensuing day, when Mary sud¬ 
 denly remembered that her books were still in the recitation- 
 room, and would have gone for them, but Florence said, 
 
 “ I will bring up the books, Mary ; you are tired and pale 
 with bending so long over that trunk.” And accordingly 
 she went. 
 
 Mary threw herself on the couch to rest a moment, and 
 fell into a reverie of some length, unheeding the flying 
 minutes, when she recollected that Florence had been ab¬ 
 sent a long time, and rising, was about to seek her; just 
 then her cousin entered. A change had come over her 
 countenance—peace, quiet, happiness reigned supreme. 
 
 One hour later, and they had gone from Madame-’s, 
 
 never to return again. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 “ Time the supreme ! Time is eternity, 
 
 Pregnant with all eternity can give ; 
 
 With all that makes archangels smile 
 Who murders time, he crushes in the birth 
 A power ethereal.” 
 
 Young. 
 
 A year had passed away. “ How paradoxical is the 
 signification of the term ! ” How vast, when we consider 
 that each hour hastens the end of our pilgrimage ! How in¬ 
 significant in comparison with futurity! A single drop in 
 the boundless deep of eternity ! Oh Time ! thou greatest 
 of all anomalies! Friend yet foe, “ preserver and yet de¬ 
 stroyer ! ” Whence art thou, great immemorial ? When 
 shall thy wondrous mechanism be dissolved ? When shall 
 the “ pall of obscurity ” descend on thy Herculean net-work ? 
 
14 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Voices of the past echo through thy deserted temples, and 
 shriek along thy bulwarks—Never, no never ! 
 
 Season had followed season in rapid succession, and the 
 last rays of an August sun illumined a scene so beautiful, 
 that I long for the pencil of a Claude Lorraine. It was a 
 far-off town, in a far-off state, yet who has gazed on thy 
 loveliness, oh, San Antonio, can e’er forget thee! Thine 
 was the sweetness of nature; no munificent hand had 
 arranged, with artistic skill, a statue here, a fountain there. 
 
 The river wound like an azure girdle round the town \ 
 not confined by precipitous banks, but gliding along the sur¬ 
 face, as it were, and reflecting, in its deep blue waters, the 
 rustling tule which fringed the margin. An occasional 
 pecan or live-oak flung a majestic shadow athwart its azure 
 bosom, and now and then a clump of willows sighed low in 
 the evening breeze. 
 
 Far away to the north stretched a mountain range, blue 
 in the distance ; to the south, the luxuriant valley of the 
 stream. The streets were narrow, and wound with a total 
 disregard of the points of the compass. Could a stranger 
 have been placed blindfold in one of them, and then allowed 
 to look about him, the flat roofs and light appearance of 
 most of the houses would have forced him to declare that he 
 had entered a tropical town of the far east. 
 
 Many of the buildings were of musquit pickets, set up¬ 
 right in the ground, lashed together with strips of hide, and 
 thatched with the tule before mentioned. There were scarce 
 three plank-floors in the town; by far the greater number 
 being composed of layers of pebbles, lime, and sand, rolled 
 with a heavy piece of timber till quite compact; daily sprin¬ 
 kling was found necessary, however, to keep down the dust, 
 produced by constant friction. 
 
 The wealthy inhabitants built of sun-dried bricks, over¬ 
 cast with a kind of stucco. Yet, unfortunately, the plaster¬ 
 ing art died with the Montezumas, for the most vivid imag¬ 
 ination failed to convert this rough coating into the “ silver 
 sheen ” which so dazzled Cortes’s little band. The reader 
 will exclaim, “ I can fancy no beauty from so prosy a de¬ 
 scription. Thatched roofs and dirt floors, how absurd ! ” 
 
 Although a strict analysis might prove detrimental, I 
 assure you the tout ensemble was picturesque indeed. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 *5 
 
 “ Italia ! oh Italia! thou who hast 
 The fatal gift of beauty.” 
 
 Art rivaled here. Thy gorgeous skies have floated hither, 
 and hover like a halo round the town. The sun had set; 
 the glowing tints faded fast, till of the brilliant spectacle 
 naught remained save the soft roseate hue which melted 
 insensibly into the deep azure of the zenith. Quiet seemed 
 settling o’er mountain and river, when, with a solemn sweet¬ 
 ness, the vesper bells chimed out on the evening air. Even 
 as the Moslem kneels at sunset toward the “ Holy City,” so 
 punctiliously does the devout papist bend for vesper prayers. 
 Will you traverse with me the crooked streets, and stand be¬ 
 neath the belfry whence issued the holy tones ? 
 
 This ancient edifice was constructed in 1692 . It fronted 
 the Plaza, and was a long, narrow building, flanked, as it 
 were, by wings lower than the main apartment, and sur¬ 
 mounted by a dome, in which were five or six bells. This 
 dome or belfry was supported by pillars, and in the inter¬ 
 vening openings were placed the bells. The roof was flat, 
 and the dark green and gray moss clung along the sides. 
 The interior presented a singular combination of art and 
 rudeness ; the seats were of unpainted pine, and the cement 
 floor between was worn irregularly by the knees of devout 
 attendants. The railing of the altar was of carved ma¬ 
 hogany, rich and beautiful. Over this division of the long 
 room hung a silken curtain, concealing three niches, 
 which contained an image of the “ Virgin,” the “ Child,” 
 and in the center one, a tall gilt cross. Heavy silver candle¬ 
 sticks were placed in front of each niche, and a dozen 
 candles were now burning dimly. A variety of relics, too 
 numerous to mention, were scattered on the altar, and in 
 addition, several silver goblets, and a massive bowl for hold¬ 
 ing “ holy water.” A few tin sconces, placed against the 
 wall, were the only provision for lighting that dark, gloomy 
 church, and dreary enough it looked in the twilight hour. 
 About a dozen devotees were present, all kneeling on the 
 damp, hard floor. The silk curtain which concealed the 
 altar was drawn aside, with due solemnity, by two boys 
 habited in red flannel petticoats, over which hung a loose 
 white slip. The officiating priest was seen kneeling before 
 
l6 IN HA: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 the altar, with his lips pressed to the foot of the cross. He 
 retained his position for several moments, then rising, con¬ 
 ducted the ceremonies in a calm, imposing manner. When 
 these were concluded, and all had departed save the two 
 boys, who still knelt before the Virgin, he beckoned them 
 to him, and speaking a few words in Spanish, ended by 
 pointing to the door and uttering, emphatically, “ Go.” 
 Crossing themselves as they passed the images, they dis¬ 
 appeared through a side door, and the priest was left alone. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 * * * “ He was a man 
 
 Who stole the livery of the court of heaven 
 To serve the devil in ; in Virtue’s guise, 
 
 Devoured the widow’s house and orphan’s bread ; 
 
 In holy phrase, transacted villanies 
 
 That common sinners durst not meddle with.” 
 
 Pollok. 
 
 In years, he could not have exceeded twenty-five, yet the 
 countenance was that of one well versed in intrigue. The 
 cast was Italian—the crisp black hair, swarthy complexion, 
 and never-to-be-mistaken eyes. A large amount of Jesuit 
 determination was expressed in his iris, blended with cun¬ 
 ning, malignity, and fierceness. The features were prominent 
 particularly the nose; the lips finely cut, but thin; the 
 teeth beautiful and regular. In stature he was low, and 
 habited in the dress of his order, a long black coat or gown, 
 buttoned to the throat, and reaching nearly to the feet. 
 
 Glancing at his watch as the sound of the last step died 
 away, he paced round and round the altar, neglecting now 
 the many genuflections, bows, and crossings with which he 
 had honored the images in the presence of his flock. His 
 brows were knit, as if in deep thought, and doubtless he 
 revolved the result of some deep-laid plan, w r hen the door 
 v r as hurriedly opened, and a man, bowing low before the 
 images, approached him. The dress of the stranger de¬ 
 clared him ^ ranchero : he wore no jacket, but his panta- 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 17 
 
 loons were of buckskin, and his broad sombrero was tucked 
 beneath his arm. 
 
 “ Benedicit, Juan ! ” 
 
 •' Bueno noche, Padre.” 
 
 “ What tidings do you bring me ? ” said Father Mazzolin. 
 
 The Mexican handed him a letter, and then, as if much 
 fatigued, leaned heavily against the wall, and wiped his brow 
 with a large blue cotton handkerchief. As the priest turned 
 away and perused his letter, a smile of triumphant joy irra¬ 
 diated his face, and a momentary flush tinged his dark cheek. 
 Again he read it, then thrusting it into his bosom, addressed 
 the bearer: 
 
 “ May the blessing of the church rest upon you, who have 
 so faithfully served your Padre ; ” and he extended his hand. 
 Warmly it was grasped by Juan, with a look of grateful 
 surprise. 
 
 “ Este bueno ? ” inquired Juan. 
 
 “ Si mui bueno. Juan, do you read American writing? ” 
 
 “ Chiquito,” was answered, with a slight shrug. 
 
 “ What is the news in the el-grand Ciudad ? ” 
 
 “ They have a strong ox to pull the ropes, now Santa 
 Anna is at the head. Bravura ! ” and the ranchero tossed 
 his hat, regardless of the place. 
 
 It was, however, no part of Mazzolin’s policy to allow 
 him for one moment to forget the reverence due the marble 
 images that looked so calmly down from their niches, and 
 with a stern glance he pointed to them, crossing himself as 
 he did so. Juan went down on his knees, and with an 
 “ Ave Maria,” and a Mexican dollar (which he laid on the 
 altar), quieted his conscience. 
 
 “ Senor Austin is in the Calaboose,” he said, after a 
 pause. 
 
 Mazzolin started, and looked keenly at him, as if striving 
 to read his inmost thoughts. 
 
 “You must be mistaken. Juan; there is no mention of it 
 in my letter ? ” he said, in a tone of one fearing to believe 
 good news. 
 
 “ Not at all, Padre. We started together—there were 
 fifteen of us—and after we had come a long way, so far as 
 Saltillo, some of Santa Anna’s cavaleros overtook us, and 
 carried Senor Americanno back with them, and said they 
 
 2 
 
i8 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 had orders to do it,-for he was no friend to our nation. I 
 know, for I heard for myself. ” 
 
 “ Do you know the particular reason of his arrest ?” 
 
 Juan shook his head, and replied, “ That the officers did 
 not say.” 
 
 “ Did you mention to any one your having a letter for 
 me ? ” 
 
 “ No, Padre; I tell no man what does not concern him.” 
 
 “ A wise plan, Juan, I would advise you always to follow; 
 and be very careful that you say nothing to any one about 
 my letter: I particularly desire it.” 
 
 “ Intiendo,” said Juan, turning toward the door. “I go 
 to my ranche to-morrow, but come back before many sun¬ 
 sets, and if you want me again, Padre, you know where to 
 find me.” 
 
 “ The blessing of the Holy Virgin rest upon you, my 
 son, and reward you for your services in behalf of the 
 church,” 
 
 “ Adios ! ” And they parted. 
 
 Father Mazzolin drew forth the letter, and read it atten¬ 
 tively for the third time, then held it over one of the twelve 
 candles, and deliberately burnt it, muttering the while, 
 “ Ashes tell no tales.” 
 
 Extinguishing the candles and locking the door of the 
 church, he said to himself : 
 
 “ All is as I foresaw ; a breach is made which can only be 
 closed by the bodies of hundreds of these cursed heretics; 
 and Santa Anna is bloodthirsty enough to drain the last 
 drop. Alphonso Mazzolin, canst thou not carve thy fortune 
 in the coming storm? Yea, and I will. I am no unworthy 
 follower of Loyola, of Gavier, and of Bobadillo. Patience! 
 a Cardinal’s cap shall crown my labors ; ” and with a chuck¬ 
 ling laugh he entered the narrow street which led to his 
 dwelling. 
 
 “ There is but one obstacle here,” he continued ; “ that 
 Protestant girl’s work is hard to undo,” and his step be¬ 
 came quicker. “ But for her, I should have been confessor 
 to the whole family, and will be yet, despite her warning 
 efforts, though I had rather deal with any three men. She 
 is as untiring as myself.” He reached his door, and en¬ 
 tered. 
 
JVEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 u And ruder words will soon rush in 
 To spread the breach that words begin; 
 
 And eyes forget the gentle ray 
 They wore in courtship’s smiling day ; 
 
 And voices lose the tone that shed 
 A tenderness round all they said.” 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Inez de Garcia was an only child, and in San Antonio 
 considered quite an heiress. Her wealth consisted in broad 
 lands, large flocks, and numerous herds, and these valuable 
 possessions, combined with her beautiful face, rendered her 
 the object of considerable attention. Inez was endowed 
 with quick perceptions, and a most indomitable will, which 
 she never surrendered, except to accomplish some latent 
 design; and none who looked into her beautiful eyes could 
 suppose that beauty predominated over intellect. She was 
 subtile, and consciousness of her powers was seen in the 
 haughty glance and contemptuous smile. Her hand had 
 been promised from infancy to her orphan cousin, Manuel 
 Nevarro, whose possessions were nearly as extensive as her 
 own. Inez looked with indifference on her handsome cousin, 
 but never objected till within a few weeks of her seven¬ 
 teenth birthday (the period appointed for her marriage), 
 when she urged her father to break the engagement. This 
 he positively refused to do, but promising, at Father Maz- 
 zolin’s suggestion, that she should have a few more months 
 of freedom, she apparently acquiesced. Among the peculiar 
 customs of Mexicans, was a singular method of celebrating 
 
 St. -’s day. Instead of repairing to their church and 
 
 engaging in some rational service, they mounted their half 
 wild ponies, and rode furiously up and down the streets till 
 their jaded steeds refused to stir another step, when they 
 were graciously allowed to finish the day on the common. 
 The celebration of the festival was not confined to the 
 masculine "portion of the community; silver-haired Senoras 
 
20 
 
 INEZ; A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 mingled in the cavalcade and many a bright-eyed Senorita 
 
 looked forward to St. -’s day with feelings nearly akin 
 
 to those with which a New York belle regards the most 
 fashionable ball of the season. 
 
 On the evening preceding the day of that canonized 
 lady, Manuel entered the room where Inez sat, her needle 
 work on the floor at some distance, as though flung impa¬ 
 tiently from her, her head resting on one hand, while the 
 other held a gentleman’s glove. Light as was his step, she 
 detected it and thrusting the glove into her bosom, turned 
 her fine face full upon him. 
 
 “ What in the name of wonder brings you here this time 
 of day, Manuel ? I thought every one but myself was taking 
 a siesta this warm evening.” 
 
 “I have been trying a new horse, Inez, and came to know 
 at what hour you would ride to-morrow.” He stood fanning 
 himself with his broad sombrero as he spoke. 
 
 “ Excuse me, Senor, I do not intend to ride at all.” 
 
 “ You never refused before, Inez; what is the meaning of 
 this?” and his Spanish brow darkened ominously. 
 
 “ That I do not feel inclined to do so, is sufficient reason.” 
 
 “And why don’t you choose to ride, pray? You have 
 done it all your life.” 
 
 “I’ll be cross-questioned by no one!” replied Inez, 
 springing to her feet, with flashing eyes, and passionately 
 clinching her small, jeweled hand. 
 
 Manuel was of a fiery temperament, and one of the many 
 who never pause to weigh the effect of their words or actions. 
 Seizing her arm in no gentle manner, he angrily exclaimed, 
 
 “A few more weeks, and I’ll see whether you indulge 
 every whim, and play the queen so royally ! ” 
 
 Inez disengaged her arm, every feature quivering with 
 scorn. 
 
 “To whom do you speak, Senor Nevarro? You have 
 certainly mistaken me for one of the miserable peons over 
 whom you claim jurisdiction. Allow me to undeceive you ! 
 I am Inez de Garcia, to whom you shall never dictate, lor I 
 solemnly declare, that from this day the link which has 
 bound us from childhood is at an end. Mine be the hand to 
 sever it. From this hour we meet only as cousins ! Go 
 seek a more congenial bride ! ” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OP THE ALAMO. 
 
 “ Hold, Inez! are you mad ? ” 
 
 “ No, Manuel, but candid; for eight years I have known 
 that I was destined to be your wife, but I never loved you, 
 Manuel. I do not, and never can, otherwise than as a 
 cousin.” 
 
 In a tone of ill-suppressed range, Nevarro retorted: 
 
 “ My uncle’s authority shall compel you to fulfil the 
 engagement! You shall not thus escape me ! ” 
 
 “ As you please, Sehor. Yet let me tell you, compulsion 
 will.not answer. The combined efforts of San Antonio will 
 not avail—they may crush, but cannot conquer me.” She 
 bowed low, and left the room. 
 
 Every feature inflamed with wrath, Nevarro snatched his 
 hat, and hurried down the street. He had not proceeded 
 far, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and turning, with 
 somewhat pugnacious intentions, encountered Father Maz- 
 zolin’s piercing black eyes. 
 
 “ Bueno tarde, Padre.” 
 
 The black eyes rested on Nevarro with an expression which 
 seemed to demand an explanation of his choler. Manuel 
 moved uneasily 1 the hot blood glowed in his swarthy cheek, 
 and swelled like cords on the darkened brow. 
 
 “ Did you wish to speak with me, Padre ? ” 
 
 “ Even so, my son. Thou art troubled, come unto one 
 who can give thee comfort.” 
 
 They were standing before the door of the harkell occu¬ 
 pied by the priest: he opened it and drew Manuel in. 
 
 An hour later they emerged from the house. All trace of 
 anger was removed from Nevarro’s brow, and Father Maz- 
 zolin’s countenance wore the impenetrable cast he ever 
 assumed in public. It was his business expression, the 
 mask behind which he secretly drew the strings, and lured 
 his dupes into believing him a disinterested and self-denying 
 pastor, whose only aim in life was to promote the welfare 
 and happiness of his flock. 
 
 When Don Garcia sat that night, a la Turk , on a buffalo- 
 robe before his door, puffing his cigarrita, and keeping time 
 to the violin, which sent forth its merry tones at a neighbor¬ 
 ing fandango, Inez drew near, and related the result of her 
 interview with Manuel, concluding by declaring her intention 
 
22 
 
 WEZ: £ TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 to abide by her decision, and consult her own wishes in the 
 selection of a husband. 
 
 His astonishment was great. First he tried reasoning, 
 but she refuted every argument advanced with the adroit¬ 
 ness of an Abelard: the small stock of patience with which 
 “ Dame Nature ” had endowed the Don gave way, and at 
 last, stamping with rage, he swore she should comply, or end 
 her life in a gloomy cell of San Jose. 
 
 Inez laughed contemptuously. She felt the whirlwind she 
 had raised gathering about her, yet sought not to allay it: 
 she knew it was the precursor of a fierce struggle, yet quailed 
 not. Like the heroine of Saragossa, or the martyr of Rouen, 
 she knew not fear ; and her restless nature rather joyed in 
 the strife. 
 
 A low growl from the dog who shared the robe, announced 
 an intruder, and the next moment the Padre joined them. 
 He was joyfully hailed by De Garcia as an ally ; but a dark 
 look of hatred gleamed from Inez’s eyes, as they rested on 
 his form: it vanished instantly, and she welcomed him with 
 a smile. She was cognizant of his interview with Nevarro, 
 for her window overlooked the street in which it took place. 
 She knew, too, his powers of intrigue ; that they were enlisted 
 against her ; and a glance sufficed to show the path to be 
 pursued. Long ago her penetrating eye had probed the 
 mask of dissimulation which concealed, like the “ silver veil ” 
 of Mokanna, a great deformity : how much greater because, 
 alas ! a moral one. 
 
 Father Mazzolin inquired, with apparent interest, the 
 cause of contention. The Don gave a detailed account, and 
 wound up by applying to him for support, in favor of Nevarro. 
 The look of sorrowful astonishment with which he listened, 
 compelled Inez to fix her large Spanish eyes on the ground, 
 lest he should perceive the smile which lurked in their 
 corners, and half Splayed round her lip. 
 
 He rebuked her gently, and spoke briefly of the evils 
 which would result, if she persisted in her wilful and un¬ 
 grateful course. Inez listened with a meekness which sur¬ 
 prised both parent and Padre; and when the latter rose to 
 go, approached, and, in a low tone, requested him to meet 
 her, that day week, in the confessional. 
 
 Woman’s heart is everywhere the same, and in the soli* 
 
SAAA: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 2 3 
 
 tude of her own apartment, Inez’s softer feelings found full 
 vent. She sat with her face in her hands, one long deep 
 sigh, which struggled up, telling of the secret pain that was 
 withering her joys and clouding her future. Suddenly she 
 started up, and passionately exclaimed* 
 
 “ It is hard that his love should be wasted on one whose 
 heart is as cold and stony as this wall; ” and she struck it 
 impatiently. Then drawing forth the glove, which on 
 Manuel’s entrance had been so hastily secreted, she pressed 
 it repeatedly to her lips, returned it to its hiding-place, and 
 sought her couch. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 “ What cause have we to build on length of life : 
 
 Temptations seize when fear is laid asleep ; 
 
 And ill-foreboded is our strongest guard.” 
 
 Young. 
 
 St. -’s dawn was welcomed by joyous peals from the 
 
 church-bells, and the occasional firing of a few muskets, by 
 way of accompaniment. The sun rose with a brilliance which 
 w r ould have awakened deep tones in Memnon’s statue, and 
 gilded mountain and valley. Beautiful beyond description 
 the city looked in his golden light, and 
 
 “All nature seemed rejoicing.” 
 
 Half hid by a majestic live-oak which shaded the front, 
 and within a few yards of the river, stood a small white 
 house. It was built of adoles, and contained only three 
 rooms. Instead of reaching thesq, by a broad flight, one 
 step from the threshold placed you on the ground. The 
 floor was uncovered, and, as usual, of cement. In one cor¬ 
 ner of the front apartment stood a sideboard, covered v r ith 
 glass of various kinds, and a few handsome pieces of plate. 
 Its vis-a-vis was a range of shelves, filled with books ; and 
 on the plain deal mantelpiece stood a pair of neat China 
 vases, decked with brilliant prairie flowers. Before the open 
 window was placed the table, arranged for the morning meaL 
 
24 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 How pure the cloth looked, how clear the glass ; and then 
 the bouquet of fragrant roses which adorned the center, how 
 homelike, fresh, and beautiful it seemed ! An air of com¬ 
 fort—American, southern comfort—pervaded the whole. 
 The breakfast was brought in by a middle-aged negress, 
 whose tidy appearance, and honest, happy, smiling face pre¬ 
 sented the best refutation of the gross slanders of our 
 northern brethren. I would that her daguerreotype, as she 
 stood arranging the dishes, could be contrasted with those 
 of the miserable, half-starved seamstresses of Boston and 
 New York, who toil from dawn till dark, with aching head 
 and throbbing heart, over some weary article, for which they 
 receive the mighty recompense of a shilling. 
 
 When she had arranged every dish with great exactness, 
 a small bell was rung ; and, waiter in hand, she stood ready 
 to attend the family. 
 
 A bright, young face appeared at the open window. 
 
 “ I hope, Aunt Fanny, you have a nice breakfast. You 
 have no idea what an appetite my walk has given me.” 
 
 “ Now, Miss Mary, ain’t my cooking always nice ? ” 
 
 “ Indeed, it is. Your coffee would not disgrace a pasha’s 
 table ; and your rolls are 
 
 ‘ The whitest, the lightest, that ever were seen.’ ” 
 
 She disappeared from the window, and entered the room 
 just as Mr. Hamilton came in, followed by Florence. 
 
 “ My dear uncle, have you forgotten the old adage of 
 * early to bed, and early to rise ? ’ ” 
 
 “ I am not sure that I ever learned it, Mary ; ” he dryly 
 replied, seating himself at the table. 
 
 “ One would suppose you had taken a draught from the 
 ‘ Elixir of Life ; ’ ” said Florence, glancing affectionately at 
 her beaming face. 
 
 “ I have discovered the fountain of perpetual youth, so 
 vainly sought in South America ! ” 
 
 “ Indeed ! Is it located in this vicinity ? ” 
 
 “ Yes; and if you will rise to-morrow with Aurora, when 
 4 she sprinkles with rosy light the dewy lawn,’ I will promise 
 to conduct you to it.” 
 
 “ Thank you; but, Mary, what induced you to ramble so 
 early ? ” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 2 5 
 
 I have been nearly two miles for some roots Mrs. 
 Carlton expressed a wish for. See, Florry, how I have dyed 
 my hands pulling them up! ” 
 
 “ Were you alone, Mary ?” asked Mr. Hamilton. 
 
 “ I was, most of the time. As I came back, Dr. Bryant 
 overtook me. He spent the night at San Jose mission, with 
 a sick Mexican, and was returning. But where is Aunt 
 Lizzy ? ” continued Mary, with an inquiring glace round the 
 room. 
 
 “ She went to mass this morning,” replied her cousin. 
 
 “ Oh, yes 1 It is St. -’s day. I heard the bells at 
 
 daybreak.” 
 
 “ It is a savage, heathenish custom they have adopted 
 here, of tearing up and down the streets from morning till 
 night. I wish, by Jove 1 they would ride over their cant¬ 
 ing Padre ! I think he would find some other mode of cel¬ 
 ebrating the festival! ” 
 
 “ He would lay claim to saintship on the strength of it,” 
 replied Mary. 
 
 “You had better keep out of the street to-day, girls,” 
 rejoined Mr. Hamilton, pushing his cup away, and rising 
 from the table. 
 
 At this moment Aunt Lizzy entered ; and after the morn¬ 
 ing salutation, turned toward the door. 
 
 “You are later than usual this morning, aunt. Do sit 
 down and eat your breakfast, or it will be so cold you can¬ 
 not touch it,” said Mary. 
 
 “ No really devout Catholic tastes food on this holy day,” 
 she answered, motioning it from her. 
 
 “ It must be quite a penance to abstain, after your long 
 walk,” said Mr. Plamilton with a smile. 
 
 “ Father Mazzolin said, this morning, that all who kept this 
 holy day would add a bright jewel to their crown, and ob¬ 
 tain the eternal intercession of the blessed saint; ” and she 
 left the room. 
 
 “ That falsehood adds another stone to the many that 
 will sink him in the lake of perdition, if there be one ! ” 
 muttered Mr. Hamilton, as he departed for the counting- 
 room. The last few sentences had fallen unheeded on 
 Florence’s ear, for she sat looking out the window, her 
 thoughts evidently far away. But every trace of merriment 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 26 
 
 vanished from Mary’s face, and instead of her bright smile, 
 a look of painful anxiety settled there. A long silence en« 
 sued; Mary stood by the table, wiping the cups as Aunt 
 Fanny rinsed them, and occasionally glancing at her cousin. 
 At length she said, 
 
 “ Florry, will you walk over to Mrs. Carlton’s with me ? 
 I promised to go, and the walk will do you good, for indeed 
 your cheeks are paler than I like to see them.” 
 
 “ Certainly, Mary, but do you remember what father said 
 about our remaining at home, to-day ? ” 
 
 “ There is no danger, Florry, if we only look about us, 
 and I realiy must go.” 
 
 “ Well then, let us start at once.” 
 
 In a few moments they set out, equipped in large straw hats, 
 and equally large gloves ; in addition, Mary carried in her 
 hand a basket, filled with herbs and flowers. 
 
 “If we walk briskly, we shall get there before any of the 
 riders set forth. Ah! I am mistaken, there they come. 
 Florry, don’t go so near the street: that horseman in blue, 
 looks as though he were riding on ice—see how his horse 
 slides about! ” 
 
 A party of twenty or thirty thundered past, and the girls 
 quickened their pace. A few minutes’ walk brought them 
 to Mrs. Carlton’s door, which closed after them. 
 
 That lady was reading, as they entered, but threw aside 
 her book, and advanced joyously to greet them. She kissed 
 Mary affectionately, and cordially shook Florence’s hand. 
 
 “ I am glad you came, Mary. I feared you would not, 
 and really I want you very much.” 
 
 “ What can I do, Mrs. Carlton ? ” 
 
 “ You can take off your hat and gloves, and prepare your- 
 selves to spend the day with me.” 
 
 They laughingly complied, protesting, however, that they 
 could only remain a short time. 
 
 “ Mary, my poor blind proselyte died yesterday, and be- 
 queathed her orphan child to me: I feel almost obliged to 
 accept the charge, for her fear lest it should fall into the 
 Padre’s hands was painful to behold, and I promised to pro¬ 
 tect it if possible. The poor little fellow is nearly destitute of 
 clothes; I have cut some for him, and knew you would assist 
 me in making them.” 
 
2 ? 
 
 ifrEZ • ^ TALE OF THE A LA ML 
 
 “ With pleasure, dear Mrs. Carlton, and so will Florry; 
 fill my basket with work, and we will soon have him a suit, 
 Oh ! how glad I am that he has such kind friends as your* 
 self and husband.” 
 
 “ The Padre came last night to demand the child, but we 
 refused to give him up: he said he intended clothing and 
 educating the boy free of charge ; yet I knew better, for he 
 refused to baptize Madame Berara’s orphan-niece without 
 the customary fee, though he well knew she could ill afford 
 it, and was compelled to sell her last cow to make up the 
 requisite sum. I feel assured he will do all in his power to 
 entice Erasmo from me ; but hope, by constant watchfulness, 
 to counteract his influence. Oh! Mary, how much we 
 need a Protestant minister here: one who could effectually 
 stem the tide of superstition and degradation that now 
 flows unimpeded through this community. Oh ! my dear 
 friend, let us take courage, and go boldly forth in the cause 
 of truth, and strive to awaken all from the lethargy into 
 which they have fallen—a lethargy for which their priests 
 are alone responsible, for they administered the deadly 
 drug.” 
 
 “ I feel as deeply as yourself, dear Mrs. Carlton, the evil 
 tendency and deplorable consequences of the institutions by 
 which we are surrounded, and the little that I can do will 
 be gladly, oh, how gladly! contributed to the work of ref¬ 
 ormation you have so nobly begun.” 
 
 “ You forget, Mary, in your proselyting enthusiasm, that 
 Aunt Lizzy belongs to the despised sect; surely you can 
 not intend, by attacks on her religion, to render her home 
 unpleasant ? ” said Florence. 
 
 Mary’s eyes filled with tears, as she glanced reproach¬ 
 fully at her cousin, and replied, 
 
 “ Nothing is further’from my wishes, Florry, than to make 
 her home other than happy. Aunt Lizzy has every oppor¬ 
 tunity of informing herself on this important question. Yet 
 she prefers the easier method, of committing her conscience 
 to the care of the priest; she has chosen her path in life, 
 and determinately closes her eyes to every other. The state 
 of the Mexicans around us is by no means analogous. They 
 were allowed no choice : bred from infancy in the Romish 
 faith, they are totally unacquainted with the tenets of othe^ 
 
28 
 
 /NEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 creeds. Implicit obedience to the Padre is their primary 
 law, the grand ruling principle of life, instilled from their 
 birth. To lay before them the truths of our own ‘ pure and 
 undefiled religion/ is both a privilege and duty.” 
 
 “ You spoke just now, Miss Florence, of the ‘ despised 
 sect; ’ allow me, in all modesty, to say, that to the true and 
 earnest Christian there is no such class. Believe me, when 
 I say, that though deeply commiserating their unhappy con¬ 
 dition, and resolved to do all in my power to alleviate it, 
 still I would as cheerfully assist the conscientious Papist, 
 and tender him the hospitalities of my home, as one of my 
 own belief.” 
 
 “ You have expressed my feelings exactly, Mrs. Carlton, 
 and there are times when I wash myself a missionary, that 
 I might carry light to this benighted race,” exclaimed Mary, 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 “ We are very apt, my dear child, to consider ourselves 
 equal to emergencies, and capable of great actions, when a 
 strict examination would declare that the minor deeds and 
 petty trials which test the temper and the strength too often 
 destroy our equanimity, and show our inability to cope with 
 difficulties. Woman’s warfare is with little things, yet we 
 are assured by the greatest of all female w r riters, that ‘ trifles 
 make the sum of human things;’ therefore, let us strive 
 more and more earnestly to obtain perfect control of our¬ 
 selves; then shall we be enabled to assist others.” 
 
 “ I often think,” replied Mary, thoughtfully, “ that we 
 make great sacrifices with comparative ease, because w r e 
 feel our own insufficiency, and rely more on God for assist¬ 
 ance ; while in lesser troubles w^e are so confident of suc¬ 
 cess, that w 7 e neglect to ask his blessing, and consequently 
 fail in our unaided attempts.” 
 
 “ You are right, Mary, and it should teach us to distrust 
 our powers, and lead us to lean upon 6 Him, who is a very 
 precious help in time of need.’ ” 
 
 A long silence ensued, broken at length by the entrance 
 of Mrs. Carlton’s two children, w r ho carried a large basket 
 between them. Hastily they set it down, on seeing Mary, 
 and sprung to her side : the little girl clung around her neck, 
 and kissed her repeatedly. 
 
 “ Maria, you are too boisterous, my little girl; Miss Mary 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 will have no cause to doubt your affection. Elliot, why do 
 you not speak to Miss Florence, my son ? ” 
 
 Blushing at his oversight, the boy obeyed, and, joined by 
 his sister, stood at his mother’s side. Maria whispered 
 something in his ear, but he only shook his head and replied, 
 
 “ Not now, sister, let us wait.” 
 
 She hesitated a moment, then laid her little hand on Mrs. 
 Carlton’s shoulder. 
 
 “ Mother, I know you said it was rude to whisper in com¬ 
 pany, but I want to tell you something very much.” 
 
 'Mrs. Carlton smiled. 
 
 “ I am sure the young ladies will excuse you, my daugh¬ 
 ter, if it is important.” She bent her head, and a pro¬ 
 longed whispering followed. A flush rose to the mother’s 
 cheek and a tear to her eyes, as she clasped her to her 
 heart, and said, 
 
 “ I wish you, my children, to speak out, and tell all you 
 know of this affair.” 
 
 Elliot was spokesman. 
 
 “ We went into the garden as you desired us, mother, and 
 Erasmo and I picked the peas, while sister held the basket; 
 presently we heard a noise in the brush fence like some¬ 
 thing coming through, and sister got frightened (here he 
 laughed), and wanted to run to the house, but we told her it 
 was only a sheep or dog outside; but it turned out to be 
 the Padre, and he came and helped us to pick. Mother, he 
 told us such pretty stories; I can’t think of the names; 
 they must have been Dutch, they were so long and hard. 
 But I remember one of the tales ; he said there was once a 
 good man who lived in Asia, and one day he lost his crucifix; 
 he looked everywhere for it, but could not find it; and a 
 long time afterward, he happened to be walking by the sea¬ 
 shore and looked out on the water, and oh, what do you 
 think 1 He saw his crucifix moving on the water, and a 
 great crab paddled out to land and laid his crucifix down 
 before him, and then paddled right back into the sea again. 
 Now wasn’t that funny. I can’t think of the good man’s 
 name, Saint—Somebody—Saint—Saint—” 
 
 “ Brother, I reckon it was Saint Crab! ” 
 
 “ No, no ! It was the crab that found the crueifix, and I 
 think he was smarter than the saint.” 
 
3 ° 
 
 uNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO* 
 
 44 Now, Florry, should I repeat this legend to Aunt Lizzy, 
 it would be impossible to convince her that it proceeded 
 from the Padre’s lips. Yet even prelates of Rome scruple 
 not to narrate as miracles tales equally absurd, where their 
 auditory is sufficiently ignorant to credit them. Pardon 
 my interruption, Elliot, and finish your story,” continued 
 Mary. 
 
 44 Mother, the Padre talked to Erasmo in Spanish. I 
 could not understand all he said, but it was about coming 
 to live with him, and going to Mexico, to see the sights 
 there. When he came to the rows you left for seed, I told 
 him we must come to the house, and asked him to come 
 in; but he would not, and offered us all some money, and 
 said we must not tell a soul we had seen him, for he hap* 
 pened to see us through the fence, and just came in to 
 speak to us, and you and father might think he ought not to 
 come into our garden. But oh, mother, would you believe 
 it! he told Erasmo, as he went off, that he must ask you to 
 let him go to bathe to-morrow ; and instead of going to the 
 river, he must come to the church: he wanted to give him 
 something. He told him in Spanish, but I understood what 
 he said. Now, wasn’t that teaching him to tell a lie? and 
 he a Padre too ! Mother, don’t you think he ought to be 
 ashamed ? ” 
 
 44 Elliot, if you would gladden the hearts of your father 
 and mother, be ever truthful. Remember the story of 
 4 Pedro and Francisco ’ you read not long ago, and put dis¬ 
 honesty and dissimulation far from you : 4 honesty is the 
 best policy,’ and if you adhere to it through life, it will 
 prove of 4 far more worth than gold.’ Be sure you keep 
 nothing from me, particularly what the Padre may say.” 
 
 44 Shall we take the peas out under the hackberry and 
 shell them,” said Maria. 
 
 44 Yes, my dear, but first tell me where Erasmo is.” 
 
 44 Sitting on the steps, mother. I know he will help us to 
 shell them, for he said it was mere fun, picking peas.” 
 
 44 Say nothing to him of the Padre or his conversation, 
 but interest him about other things.” 
 
 They left the room swinging the basket between them. 
 Mrs. Carlton’s eyes filled as she looked after her children, 
 “ A mother’s care can do a great deal, yet how little did I 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 31 
 
 Imagine that temptation would assail them at such a time, 
 and in such a garb.” 
 
 “ Oh, guard them carefully ; for, surrounded by these in¬ 
 fluences, it will be difficult to prevent contamination,” said 
 Mary, earnestly. 
 
 Just then a long, loud shout from the street attracted 
 their attention, and hastening to the door, they perceived a 
 crowd gathered on the Plaza. In the center was a body of 
 Mexican cavalry, headed by their commanding officer, who, 
 hat in hand, was haranguing them. The ladies looked at 
 each other in dismay. 
 
 “ To what does this tend ? ” asked Mary, anxiously. 
 
 “ My husband told me several days since that Austin was 
 imprisoned in Mexico, and said he feared difficulties would 
 ensue, but knew not the cause of his confinement.” 
 
 “ There is Dr. Bryant coming toward us ; I dare say he 
 can tell us the meaning of this commotion.” 
 
 That gentleman, bowing low in the saddle, reined his 
 Steed as near the step as possible. 
 
 “ How do you do, Miss Hamilton, and you, my dear 
 sister? I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Mary in her 
 morning rambles ; she is a most remarkable young lady. 
 Assures me she actually loves early rising.” His dark eyes 
 were fixed laughingly upon her. 
 
 “ Do stop your nonsense, Frank, and tell us the cause of 
 that crowd,” said Mrs. Carlton, laying her hand on his 
 arm. 
 
 “ My dear sister, that tall, cadaverous-looking cavalier is 
 the brother-in-law of Santa Anna, and no less a personage 
 than General Cos, sent hither to fortify this and every other 
 susceptible place.” 
 
 “ Against whom or what ? ” 
 
 “ It is a long story, ladies. You know that Coahuila has 
 pursued an oppressive policy toward us for some time, and 
 refused to hear reason: Austin remonstrated again and 
 again, and at last went to Mexico, hoping that the author¬ 
 ities would allow us (here he bit his lip, and his cheek 
 flushed)—it galls my spirit to utter the word—allow us to 
 form a separate State. The Congress there took no notice 
 of his petition, for, in truth they were too much engaged 
 just then about their own affairs to heed him, and he wrote 
 
32 
 
 INEZ: a TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 to several persons in Austin, advising them at all hazards to 
 proceed. Some cowardly wretch, or spy in disguise, secretly 
 despatched one of his letters to the ministers; consequently, 
 as Austin was returning, they made him prisoner, and carried 
 him back to Mexico. Santa Anna is at the head of affairs. 
 He has subverted the too liberal constitution of 1824 , but 
 is opposed by a few brave hearts, who scorn the servi¬ 
 tude in store for them. Santa Anna knows full well 
 that we will not submit to his crushing yoke, and there¬ 
 fore sends General Cos to fortify the Alamo. This is the 
 only definite information I have been able to glean from 
 several sources.” 
 
 44 Do you think there is probability of a war ? ” 
 
 44 It will most inevitably ensue, for total submission will be 
 exacted by Santa Anna, and the Texans are not a people to 
 comply with any such conditions.” 
 
 44 You think General Cos is here to fortify the Alamo ? ” 
 
 44 Yes; the work commences to-morrow, I hear, and the 
 fort will be garrisoned by Spanish troops.” 
 
 44 How many has he with him ? ” inquired his sister. 
 
 44 Only fifty or sixty; this is merely the advanced guard, 
 the main body will probably arrive in a few days.” 
 
 44 1 suppose they are joyously welcomed by the Mexicans 
 here, who have ever regarded with jealous eyes Protestant 
 settlers.” 
 
 44 Oh, yes, that shout testified the hearty welcome they 
 received.” 
 
 At this moment Mr. Hamilton joined the group. 
 
 44 Have you heard the news ? ” he inquired. 
 
 44 Yes, and sad enough it is,” said Mary, with a sigh. 
 
 44 It will be a bloody conflict.” 
 
 44 1 am afraid so,” replied Dr. Bryant. 
 
 44 Come, girls, I am going home, will you go now ? ” 
 
 Mary took her basket, which Mrs. Carlton had filled with 
 work, and they descended the steps. 
 
 44 1 declare, Miss Irving, I have a great desire to know 
 what that basket contains ; it is as inseparably your com¬ 
 panion as was the tub of Diogenes. I often see it round 
 a corner before you are visible, and at the glimpse of it, 
 invariably sit more erect in saddle, and assume my most 
 amiable expression.” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 33 
 
 He raised himself, and peeped inquiringly over the edge; 
 Mary swung it playfully behind her. 
 
 “ I never gratify idle curiosity, Dr. Bryant.” 
 
 “ Indeed, how very remarkable; but I assure you I know 
 full well the use to which those same herbs you had this 
 morning are to be applied; you are amalgamating nauseous 
 drugs, and certain pills, to be administered to my patients. 
 I am grieved to think you would alienate what few friends I 
 have here, by raising yourself up as a competitor. Pray, 
 where did you receive your diploma ? and are you Thom- 
 sonian, Allopathic, Homeopathic, or Hydropathic ? ” 
 
 Mary looked at Mrs. Carlton : both smiled. 
 
 “ Ah ! I see Ellen is associated with you. Do admit me 
 to partnership; I should be a most valuable acquisition, 
 take my word for it. A more humble-minded, good-hearted, 
 deeply-read, and experienced disciple of Esculapius never 
 felt pulse, or administered a potion.” 
 
 They laughed outright. 
 
 “ Mary, shall we tell Frank what we intend those herbs 
 for ? ” 
 
 “ By no means, he does not deserve to know.” 
 
 “ Ah ! I see Terence was right after all, in his opinion of 
 woman’s nature—‘ When you request, they refuse ; when 
 you forbid, they are sure to do it.’ ” 
 
 “ Come, girls, come ! I have business at home ; ” said 
 Mr. Hamilton, and they set out homeward. They had 
 not proceeded far, when Mary exclaimed, pointing behind 
 her, 
 
 “ Oh, uncle, that woman will be killed ! Can nobody 
 help her ? ” 
 
 “ She will certainly be thrown from her horse 1 ” 
 
 A party of five or six Mexicans were riding with their 
 usual rapidity toward them. An elderly woman in the rear 
 had evidently lost control of her fiery horse, which was 
 plunging violently. The other members of the company 
 seemed unable to render any assistance, as their own could 
 scarcely be restrained. The unfortunate Senora was almost 
 paralyzed with fright; for instead of checking him by the 
 reins, they had fallen over his head, become entangled in 
 his feet, and now grasping the mane, she was shrieking 
 fearfully 
 % 
 
34 
 
 INEZ : A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 “ Oh, can’t we do something for her l ” cried Mary, clasp* 
 ing her hands. 
 
 “ I do not see how we can assist her,” said Mr. Hamilton* 
 
 “ At least, let us try ; ” and they hastened to the spot 
 where the infuriated animal was struggling. 
 
 44 Stand back, girls! you can do nothing.” 
 
 He made several ineffectual attempts to catch the bridle, 
 as the forefeet rose in air, and at last succeeded in getting 
 one end. He bade the woman let go the mane, and slide 
 off. She did so, but some portion of her dress was caught 
 in the saddle, and she hung suspended. The horse feeling 
 the movement, again plunged, despite Mr. Hamilton’s efforts 
 to hold him down. The scene was distressing indeed, as 
 she was raised and then flung down again. 
 
 Mary saw the danger, and rushing round the • enraged 
 horse, fearlessly pushed off the piece which was attached to 
 the pommel of the saddle, and freed the unfortunate matron* 
 The horse, feeling relieved of his burden, gave a desperate 
 bound, and rushed off down the street. 
 
 Florence shrieked, and sprung to her father’s side* 
 Mary was bending over the moaning woman, but turned 
 suddenly, and saw her uncle stretched at Florence’s feet. 
 He was insensible, and a stream of blood oozed from his 
 lips. They raised his head, and motioned to the Mexicans, 
 that now gathered round, for water ; some was hastily pro¬ 
 cured, and then Mary entreated one of them to go for Dr. 
 Bryant: as she spoke, the tramp of hoofs caused her to look 
 up, and she perceived him urging his horse toward them. 
 He flung the reins to a man who stood near, and bent over 
 the prostrate form. 
 
 “ There is some internal injury, I see no outward wound; 
 how did this happen ? ” 
 
 Florence briefly explained the manner in which her 
 father received a kick on the chest. Happily, they were 
 near their own home, and, with the assistance of two men. 
 Dr. Bryant carefully bore him in, and laid him on a couch 
 near the open window. A restorative was administered, 
 and soon the sufferer opened his eyes. The flow of blood 
 had ceased, but he lay quite exhausted. 
 
 The physician examined the wounded place, and assured 
 Florence there was no fracture. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 35 
 
 “ I am afraid some blood-vessel is ruptured ? ” said she, 
 anxiously, 
 
 “ It is only a small one, I hope, but cannot tell certainly 
 for several days. He must be perfectly quiet; the least 
 excitement might prove fatal, by causing a fresh hem¬ 
 orrhage.’’ 
 
 Nearly a week passed, and one evening Mary followed 
 the physician as he left the house : he heard her step, and 
 turned. His usually laughing countenance was grave and 
 anxious; but he strove to seem cheerful. 
 
 “ Doctor, I wish to know what you think of my uncle’s 
 case ; we are afraid it is more serious than you at first pro¬ 
 nounced it ? ” 
 
 “ It is better that you should know the worst. I am 
 pained to grieve you, but candor compels me to say, that a 
 fatal injury has been inflicted. I hoped for the best, but an 
 examination this evening confirmed my fears.” 
 
 Mary sobbed bitterly and long. Dr. Bryant sought not 
 to comfort her by exciting false hopes, but paced up and 
 down the gravel-walk beside her. 
 
 “ You do not fear a rapid termination of the disorder ? ” 
 she said at last, in a low, trembling tone. 
 
 “ He may linger some days, but I do not think it probable 
 that he will.” 
 
 “ Florry, Florry ! what is to become of us ? ” cried the 
 weeping girl, in a voice of agony. “ Oh, God ! spare him 
 to us ! ” 
 
 “ Do you think your cousin comprehends her father’s 
 danger ?” 
 
 “ She fears the worst, and requested me this evening to 
 ask your opinion. Oh, how can I tell her that he must 
 die ! ” 
 
 “ Do not crush all hope (though I have none) ; let her 
 believe that he may recover. She is not of a temperament 
 to bear prolonged agony. The shock will be less painful, 
 rest assured. Believe me, I deeply sympathize with you 
 both.” And pressing her hand, he withdrew. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 “ See ! the dappled gray coursers of the morn 
 Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs, 
 
 And chase it through the sky! ”~ 
 
 Marstos. 
 
 Inez left her father’s door as the last notes of the matin 
 bell died away on the cool, clear morning air. She held in 
 her hand a silken scarf, which, according to the custom of 
 her country, was thrown lightly across the head, and con¬ 
 fined at the chin. 
 
 Beautiful she looked, with the feverish glow on her cheek, 
 and her large Spanish eyes, restless and piercing, flashing 
 out at times the thoughts of her inmost soul. She threw the 
 mantilla round her head, and turned toward the church. 
 The step was firm yet hasty. She seemed endeavoring to 
 escape from herself. 
 
 The streets were silent and the Plaza deserted, and naught 
 seemed stirring save the swallows that twittered and circled 
 round and round the belfry of the church. There was 
 something soothing in the deep stillness that reigned on that 
 balmy morning, and Inez felt its influence. She paused at 
 the entrance of the gray old church, and stretched forth 
 her arms to the rosy east. 
 
 “ Peace, peace! ” she murmured, in a weary tone, and 
 sunk her head upon her bosom. The door opened behind 
 her, and raising herself proudly, she drew the scarf closer 
 about her, and entered. 
 
 A basin of holy water was placed near, and hastily she 
 signed the figure of the cross and proceeded down the aisle 
 to a side door leading to one of the wings. She pushed it 
 noiselessly ajar and passed in. 
 
 A solitary tin sconce dimly lighted the small confessional, 
 dark and gloomy as night, at that early hour. A wooden 
 cross suspended from the wall, a stone bench, and table, on 
 which lay a rosary and crucifix, and a small vessel of holy 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 37 
 
 « 
 
 water, formed the entire furniture. Before this table sat 
 Father Mazzolin, his face buried in his hands. Her step, 
 light as it was, startled him; yet without rising, he mur- 
 mured, “ Benedicit.” 
 
 “ Bueno dios, Padre.” 
 
 He motioned to her to kneel, and she did so, on the damp 
 floor at his feet, drawing the scarf over her face, so as to 
 conceal the features. 
 
 “ Bless me, my Father, because I have sinned.” 
 
 He laid his hands on her bowed head, and muttered in¬ 
 distinctly a Latin phrase. “ I confess to Almighty God, to 
 blessed Mary, ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Arch¬ 
 angel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy apostles Peter 
 and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have sinned exceed¬ 
 ingly in thought, word, and deed, through my most grievous 
 fault. Therefore I beseech the blessed Mary, ever Virgin, 
 the blessed Michael the Archangel, the blessed John the 
 Baptist, the holy apostles Peter and Paul, and all the saints, 
 to pray to the Lord our God for me. 
 
 “ Since my last confession, I accuse myself of many sins. 
 I have missed mass, vespers and many holy ordinances of 
 our most holy church. Have borne hatred, and given most 
 provoking language. 
 
 “ I have broken the engagement thou did’st command me 
 to keep; have angered Manuel, and enraged my father 
 greatly. I neglected fasting on the day of our most holy 
 Saint-. 
 
 “ I have entered this church, this holy sanctuary, without 
 crossing myself ; and passed the image of the Blessed Virgin 
 without kneeling.” She paused, and bent her head lower. 
 
 The Padre then said, “ My daughter, thy sins are griev¬ 
 ous ; my heart bleeds over thy manifold transgressions.” 
 
 “ Even so, my Father; even so.” 
 
 i 1 Dost thou still bear enmity to Manuel Nevarro, who 
 loves thee truly, and is thy promised husband ? ” 
 
 “ No, my Father; I desire to be speedily reconciled to 
 him whom I have offended.” 
 
 “ Wilt thou promise to offer no objection, but become his 
 wife ? ” 
 
 “ My Father, I do not wish to be his wife ; vet thy will, 
 not mine.” 
 
38 INEZ : a 2 ALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 A smile of triumph glittered in the Padre's eye at this 
 confession ; yet his low tone was unchanged. 
 
 “ Inez, I will not force thee to marry Manuel, yet thou 
 shalt never be another’s wife. In infancy thou wast prom¬ 
 ised, and thy hand can never be joined to another. Choose 
 you, my daughter, and choose quickly.” 
 
 “ Padre, give me time. May one so guilty as I speak 
 out ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, speak; for I would have thine inmost thoughts.” 
 
 44 Father, let me spend a month of quiet and peace among 
 the holy sisters at San Jose ; there will I determine either 
 to be Manuel’s wife, or dedicate the remainder of my life to 
 the service of God and our most Holy Lady.” 
 
 “ You have spoken well: even so shall it be ; but, Inez, 
 I would question you further, and see you answer me truly, 
 as you desire the intercession of the Blessed Virgin.” 
 
 Inez lifted her head, and fixing her eyes full on his swarthy 
 face, replied with energy : 
 
 “ My Father, even as I desire the intercession of our 
 Blessed Virgin, so will I answer.” 
 
 The head was bent again on her bosom. He had sought 
 to read her countenance during that brief glance, but there 
 was a something in its dark depths he could not quite under¬ 
 stand. 
 
 “ My daughter, hast thou been of late with that Protestant 
 girl, by name Mary Irving ? ” 
 
 “ I have seen her twice since last confession.” 
 
 44 Where did you meet her ? ” 
 
 44 Once at Senora Perraras, and once she came for me, 
 to walk with her.” 
 
 44 Answer truly. Upon what subjects did you converse ? ” 
 
 Inez seemed striving to recall some portion of what had 
 past. At last she said, 44 Indeed, Padre, I cannot remember 
 much she said. It was mostly of birds, and trees, and 
 flowers, and something, I believe, about this beautiful town, 
 as she called it.” 
 
 44 Think again. Did she not speak lightly of the blessed 
 church, and most holy faith ? Did she not strive to turn 
 you to her own cursed doctrines, and, above all, did she not 
 speak of me, your Padre, with scorn ? ” 
 
 “ No, my Father, most truly she did not.” A v?Jn she 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 3 $ 
 
 raised her eyes to his face. Piercing was the glance he 
 bent upon her. Yet hers fell not beneath it: calm and im* 
 movable she seemed. 
 
 He lifted his hand menacingly. 
 
 “ I bid you now beware of her, and her friend, the trader’s 
 wife. They are infernal heretics, sent hither by the evil one 
 to turn good Catholics from their duty. I say again, beware 
 of them ! ” and he struck his hand heavily on the table 
 beside him. “ And now, my daughter, have you relieved 
 your conscience of its burden ? Remember, one sin with¬ 
 held at confession will curse you on your death-bed, and send 
 you, unshriven, to perdition ! ” 
 
 A sort of shudder ran through the bowed form of Inez* 
 and in a low tone, she replied, “ I also accuse myself of all 
 the sins that may have escaped my memory, and by which, 
 as well as those I have confessed, I have offended Almighty 
 God, through my most grievous fault.” 
 
 “ I enjoin upon you, as penance for the omission of the 
 holy ordinances of our most holy church, five Credos when 
 you hear the matin bell, twelve Paters when noon comes 
 round, and five Aves at vespers. These shall you repeat, 
 kneeling upon the hard floor, with the crucifix before you, 
 and your rosary in your hand. In addition, you must repair 
 to a cell of San Jose, and there remain one month. More* 
 over, you shall see and speak to none, save the holy sisters. 
 And now, my daughter, I would absolve you.” 
 
 Inez bent low, while he spread his hands above her head 
 and pronounced the Latin text to that effect, then bade her 
 rise, and dismissed her with a blessing. 
 
 The sun was just visible over the eastern hills, as Inez 
 stepped upon the Plaza. Her face was deadly pale, and the 
 black eyes glittered strangely. 
 
 “ I have knelt to thee for the last time, Father Mazzolin. 
 Long enough you have crushed me to the earth ; one short 
 month of seeming servitude, and I am free. Think you I 
 too cannot see the gathering tempest ? for long I have 
 watched it rise. It may be that happiness is denied me| 
 but yonder gurgling waters shall receive my body ere I be¬ 
 come a lasting inmate of your gloomy cell. My plan works; 
 well; even my wily Padre thinks me penitent for the pastl 
 But dearly have I bought my safety. I have played false t 
 
40 
 
 A TALE OF THE ALAM 
 
 lied! where is my conscience? Have I one? No, no ! ’tis 
 dead. Dead from the hour I listened to the Padre’s teach- 
 ings ! If there be a hereafter, and, oh! if there is a God, 
 what will become of me ? ” And the girl shuddered convul¬ 
 sively. “ Yet I have heard him lie. I know that even he 
 heeds not the laws of his pretended God ! He bade me 
 follow his teachings, and I did, and I deceived him ! Ha 1 
 he thinks the game all at his fingers’ ends. But I will neither 
 marry Manuel, nor be a holy sister of Jose. There will 
 come a time for me. Now I must work, keep him in the 
 dark, spend the month in seclusion ; by that time the troubles 
 here will begin, and who may tell the issue ? ” 
 
 A quick step behind her caused Inez to turn in the midst 
 of her soliloquy. Dr. Bryant was hastening by, but paused 
 at sight of her face. 
 
 “ Ah, Sehorita ! How do you do this beautiful morn¬ 
 ing ? ” He looked at her earnestly, and added, “ You are 
 too pale, Inez—much too pale. Your midnight vigils do 
 not agree with you ; believe me, I speak seriously, you will 
 undermine your health.” Her eyes were lixed earnestly on 
 his noble face, beaming with benevolence, and a slight flush 
 tinged her cheek, as she replied, “ Dr. Bryant, I am not the 
 devout Catholic you suppose me. The Padre thinks me 
 remiss in many of my duties, and I am going for a short 
 time to San Jose. You need not look at me so strangely, I 
 have no idea of becoming a nun, I assure you.” 
 
 “ Inez, one of your faith can never be sure of anything; 
 let me entreat you not to go to the convent. You need rec¬ 
 reation, and had much better mount your pony, and canter 
 a couple of miles every morning; it would insure a more 
 healthful state of both body and mind.” 
 
 " “I must go, Dr. Bryant.” 
 
 u Well then, good-by, if you must, yet I fear you will not 
 return looking any better.” 
 
 “ Adios,” and they parted. 
 
 Inez’s eye followed the retreating form till an adjoining 
 corner intervened. Then pressing her hand on her heart, 
 as if to still some exquisite pain, she murmured in saddened 
 tones— “ Oh ! I would lay down my life for your love, yet it is 
 lavished on one who has no heart to give in return. Oh, 
 that I may one day be able to serve you l ” 
 
JVEZ: A TALE OF Ttiu. ALAMO . 
 
 41 
 
 At that moment she perceived Manuel Nevarro crossing 
 the Plaza, and drawing closer the mantilla, she hastened 
 homeward. 
 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 “ A perfect woman, nobly planned ; 
 
 To warn, to counsel, to command, 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 
 Prudence, foresight, strength, and skill.” 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 The beautiful ideal of Wordsworth seemed realized in 
 Mrs. Carlton. She was by nature impetuous, and even 
 irritable; but the careful training of her deeply pious mother 
 early eradicated these seeds of discord and future misery. 
 She reared her “ in the way she should go,” and taught her 
 to “ remember her Creator in the days of her youth.” Crush¬ 
 ing vanity, which soon rose hydra-headed in her path, she 
 implanted in her daughter’s heart a sense of her own unworth¬ 
 iness, and led her to the “ fountain of light and strength.” 
 
 Under her judicious care, Ellen’s character was molded 
 into perfect beauty. She became a Christian, in the purest 
 sense of the term. Hers were not the gloomy tenets of the 
 anchorite, which, with a sort of Spartan stoicism, severs 
 every tie enjoined by his great Creator, bids adieu to all of 
 joy that earth can give, and becomes a devotee at the shrine 
 of some canonized son of earth, as full of imperfections as 
 himself. Neither did she hold the lighter and equally dan¬ 
 gerous creed of the latitudinarian. Her views were of a 
 happy medium ; liberal, yet perfectly orthodox. 
 
 Ellen married early in life, and many were the trials which 
 rose up to test her fortitude, and even her reliance on al¬ 
 mighty God. Of six beautiful children that blessed her 
 union, four went down to an early tomb. Though bowed 
 to the earth by the weight of her affliction, she murmured 
 not against the hand that chastened her; but as one by one 
 was snatched from her warm embrace, she poured out the 
 depth of a mother’s love on the remaining two. 
 
 One stroke of fortune reduced her, in a day, from afflu¬ 
 ence to comparative penury; and leaving his luxurious home, 
 
42 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Mr. Carlton resolved to seek his fortune in the Western 
 World. Hither she had accompanied him, encountering, 
 without a murmur, the numerous hardships, which those 
 who have not endured can never fully realize. They had 
 preceded Mr. Hamilton but a few months, and joyfully wel¬ 
 comed him as an agreeable acquisition to their little circle. 
 
 Mrs. Carlton found in Mary a real friend; one who sym¬ 
 pathized with, and assisted her in her many benevolent plans 
 for ameliorating the condition of the destitute Mexicans 
 around them. 
 
 With Florence, the former had little affinity, and, conse¬ 
 quently, little intercourse. Their tastes were directly op¬ 
 posite, and though they often met, there was no interchange 
 of the deep and holier feelings of the heart. 
 
 Frank Bryant was the orphan-brother of Mrs. Carlton, and 
 almost as dearly loved by her as her own darling Elliot. A few 
 
 months before St.-’s day, he reached San Antonio, on 
 
 a visit to the sister, from whom he had been separated 
 several years. Soon after his arrival, an epidemic made its 
 appearance among the lower order of Mexicans; and as 
 there was no resident physician at that early time, his ser¬ 
 vices were speedily in requisition. The Padre, who num¬ 
 bered among his many acquirements a tolerable knowledge 
 of medicine, viewed with indifference the suffering around 
 him; and was only roused from his lethargy by discovering 
 the flattering estimation in which Frank was held. Fearing 
 so formidable a rival in the affections of his people, he left 
 no means untried to undermine the popularity so deservedly 
 acquired. But gratitude is a distinguishing tiait of Indian 
 character ; and though apparently obeying the injunctions 
 of their Padre, to follow no directions save his own, they 
 reverenced Dr. Bryant as a being of superior order. 
 
 It was beside the bed of a dying friend that Inez first met 
 him. One long weary night they watched together, and 
 when at last death freed the sufferer, with mingled emotions 
 of admiration and gratitude she thanked him for the attentions 
 conferred with such disinterested benevolence. She could 
 not avoid contrasting the conduct of the cold and calculating 
 Jesuit with the warm-hearted kindness of the noble stranger. 
 
 In a few days it became evident that she had herself im¬ 
 bibed the disease, and her terrified father brought the young 
 
INEZ : A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 43 
 
 physician to restore her. With unwearied patience he 
 watched ever the beautiful Sehorita, whom Mrs. Carlton and 
 Mary most carefully nursed, and was rewarded by the glow 
 of returning health. 
 
 The idols of her youth were neglected and forgotten; one 
 image filled Inez’s heart, and before it she poured out all 
 the passionate love of her ardent nature; hence her aver¬ 
 sion to a union with Manuel Nevarro. 
 
 Dr. Bryant early perceived her attachment; and knowing 
 full well that he could never return it, avoided her society 
 with a delicacy peculiarly his own. When thrown accident¬ 
 ally into her presence, his manner was frank, kind, and 
 brotherly. 
 
 Inez did not deceive herself for a moment by supposing 
 that he would ever return her love. She knew too well the 
 nature of the barrier which intervened. To remain un¬ 
 fettered, to see, to love, and one day to serve him, was her 
 dearest wish ; and for its gratification she dared the rage of 
 her father, and the hatred of her Padre. She fancied he 
 loved another, and with the characteristic jealousy of her 
 nation, an aversion to that object settled on her heart. 
 
 Dr. Bryant had nursed the last patient into convalescence: 
 still he lingered, and at the close of St.-’s day, an¬ 
 
 nounced his intention of remaining until the difficulties with 
 Mexico were either amicably arranged, or war declared. 
 Mary and Florence he often met, for he was a constant 
 visitor at Mr. Hamilton’s. His manner toward them was 
 very different; with Mary he ever assumed the light banter¬ 
 ing tone of brotherly freedom; with Florence he was always 
 grave and earnest. Their conversation was generally upon 
 literary topics, of which she was fond. Many were their 
 discussions for and against their favorite authors and 
 philosophers. In these arguments Mary seldom took 
 part, though fully qualified to do so. Occasionally her 
 cousin asked her opinion on various topics; at such times 
 she gave them clearly, yet modestly, and with a gentle dig¬ 
 nity peculiar to herself. The earnest attention with which 
 Frank listened to her views, and his happy smile, when 
 they coincided with his own, somewhat puzzled Mary; yet 
 she welcomed his repartees with the same bright smile, and 
 allowed distrust and jealousy no room in her heart. 
 
44 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 “He swore that love of souls 
 Alone had drawn him to the church ; yet strewed 
 The path that led to hell with tempting flowers. 
 
 And in the ear of sinners, as they took 
 The way of death, he whispered peace." 
 
 POLLOK. 
 
 How wearily pass the hours to the anxious watcher 
 the couch of pain. To her, it seems as though the current 
 of time had forgotten to run on and join the mighty past, 
 and that its swift waters were gathering glassily around her. 
 With unmitigated care, Florence had attended the bedside of 
 her suffering parent; occasionally slumbering on his pillow, • 
 but more frequently watching through the long nights, and 
 often stealing to the casement, to look out upon surrounding 
 gloom, and wonder if the light of day would ever fall again on 
 earth. Ah! in the midnight hour, when all nature is hushed 
 when universal darkness reigns, when the “ still small voice n 
 will no longer be silenced, then we are wont to commune 
 with our own hearts. All barriers melt away, and the sad¬ 
 dened past, the troubled present, and the shadowy future 
 rise successively before us, and refuse to be put by. In 
 vain we tightly close the aching lids ; strange lurid lights 
 flare around us, and mysterious forms glide to and fro. 
 
 To the guilty, how fearful must the season of darkness 
 prove, when, unable longer to escape from themselves, they 
 yield to the pangs of remorse, and toss in unutterable an¬ 
 guish ! 
 
 “ By night, an atheist half believes a God.” 
 
 And thousands, who in the sunny light of day rush madly on 
 to ruin, pause, shudderingly, in the midnight hour, and look 
 yearningly toward the narrow path where Virtue’s lamp, 
 flashing into the deepest recesses of surrounding gloom, dis¬ 
 pels all shadow; and, in imagination, view the Christian 
 peacefully descending the hill of life, fearlessly crossing tha 
 
INEZ* A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 45 
 
 “ valley of the shadow of death,’’ and resting at last on that 
 blest shore, where night and darkness are unknown, “ swal¬ 
 lowed up in endless day.” 
 
 It was very evident that Mr. Hamilton could survive but 
 a few days; and to every entreaty that she would take some 
 rest, Florence but shook her head, and replied, that she 
 would not leave him when he must die so soon. 
 
 One evening Dr. Bryant, having administered a soothing 
 potion, turned to her and said, “ My dear Miss Hamilton, 
 you will seriously injure your health by such constant watch¬ 
 ing. Your father needs nothing now but quiet. Let me 
 entreat you to go out for a short time ; the air will refresh 
 you, and your aunt will remain with Mr. Hamilton.” He 
 drew her reluctantly from her seat as he spoke, and whispered 
 Mary to accompany her. 
 
 Drawing her arm round Florence, Mary turned in the 
 direction of their accustomed rambles, but her cousin said, 
 “ I am too weary to walk far, let us go to our old seat by the 
 river.” 
 
 The stream was only a few yards distant, and they seated 
 themselves on a broad, flat stone, beneath a cluster of 
 pomegranate and figs. The evening was beautifully clear, 
 the soft light which still lingered in the west mellowing 
 every object, and the balmy southern breeze, fresh from “ old 
 ocean’s bosom,” rustling musically amidst the branches 
 above. As if to enhance the sweetness of the hour, and win 
 the mourners from their sad thoughts, the soothing tones of 
 the vesper bells floated afar on the evening air; distance 
 had softened them, and now they sounded clear and Eolian- 
 like. The river eddied and curled rapidly along at their 
 feet; and ever and anon, the stillness that seemed settling 
 around was broken by the plunging fish, that gambled in 
 hundreds amidst its blue waters. 
 
 How calm and holy this stillness seems ! Florry, does 
 it not cause you to lift your heart in gratitude to the 
 * almighty Giver ’ of so many blessings ? ” 
 
 “ All things are dark to sorrow ; ” replied Florence, and 
 folding her arms across her bosom, she dropped her head 
 wearily upon them. 
 
 “ Oh, Florry, do not give up so ! I cannot bear to hear 
 your despairing tone. Still hope; your dear father may be 
 
46 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Spared to us; ” and she put her arms caressingly around 
 her. 
 
 “ Hope! ” echoed Florence; “ I have ceased to hope that 
 he will recover. I know that he cannot; and in a few hours 
 I shall be alone in the world Alone, alone ! ” she repeated 
 the words, as if fully to realize the misery in store for her. 
 “ O God 1 why hast thou not taken me before ? Take me 
 now ; oh, in mercy, take me with him! ” 
 
 In vain Mary strove to soothe and console her ; she re* 
 mained perfectly still, her face hid in her arms, and replied 
 not to her anxious questionings. A long silence ensued, 
 and Mary wept. A feeling of desolation began to creep 
 over her; a second time she was to be thrown on the wide, 
 cold world. She thought of her uncle’s generosity and un¬ 
 varied kindness during the many years she had dwelt under 
 his roof, and scarcely felt that it was not her own. And 
 then there stole up the image of her lost mother; the wan, 
 but saint-like face, and the heavenly smile with which she 
 pointed upward, and bade her child prepare for the glorious 
 union, in that mansion which Jehovah assigned to those who 
 are faithful on earth. 
 
 Poor Mary’s heart was sad indeed; yet there was no 
 bitterness in her soul, no rebellious feelings toward Almighty 
 God, who had thus afflicted her so sorely. She wiped away 
 her tears, and calming herself as much as possible, repeated, 
 in a faltering voice, the beautiful hymn commencing “ I 
 would not live always.” She paused at the conclusion of 
 the second verse; but Florence did not lift her head, and 
 hoping to cheer her, she finished the hymn. 
 
 Twilight had fallen on the earth, and the blue vault of 
 heaven was studded with its myriad lamps. The new moon 
 glittered like a golden thread—low in the west—and seemed 
 almost to rest upon the bosom of the stream, as it curved in 
 the distance to meet the horizon. 
 
 “ Come, Florry, you must not stay out so late; I am 
 afraid you will take cold! ” 
 
 Florence rose mechanically and accompanied her. 
 
 “ Oh, Florry, do try and trust in God, and believe that 
 in every trial and affliction he will comfort and assist us.” 
 
 Her cousin sighed heavily, but made no reply. 
 
 As they reached the gate it was quickly opened, and the 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO 
 
 47 
 
 Padre met them: he bowed coldly to Mary, but shook 
 hands with Florence, and promised to come again the ensu¬ 
 ing day. It was so late that Mary could not distinguish his 
 features; but just as he turned to go, Aunt Fanny threw 
 open the kitchen door, and the light streamed full on his 
 face; their eyes met, and she started at the smile of triumph 
 that irradiated his dark countenance: he bowed, and 
 passed on. 
 
 Mary hastened down the walk, and entered the sick 
 room, fearing she scarcely knew what. The invalid was 
 tossing restlessly from side to side, and on the pillow lay a 
 rosary and crucifix. For an instant she stood motionless; 
 then sprang forward, and clasped his burning hand in hers. 
 “ Uncle! dear uncle! tell me who has been with you! 
 Aunt Lizzy promised she would not leave you till we came 
 back. You have been excited; your hands are burning 
 with fever! ” 
 
 “ I was not alone, Mary; the Padre sat and talked with 
 me; ” as the sufferer spoke, he shuddered and closed his 
 eyes. 
 
 “ And did he leave these here! ” said she, taking up the 
 crucifix and rosary. 
 
 “ No, no ! they are mine ! ” and he snatched them from her. 
 
 Mary turned pale, and leaned against the bed for sup¬ 
 port. Florence, now bending over her father, motioned to 
 her cousin to be silent; without effect, however; for, pass¬ 
 ing round the bed, she knelt beside him. “ Uncle, was it 
 by your desire that the Padre came here this evening ? ” 
 
 He did not seem to hear her question; she repeated it. 
 
 “ Yes; that is, this is not his first visit.” 
 
 “ Uncle, why do you evade me ? Tell me, I entreat you, 
 if he did not force himself here in my absence 1 ” 
 
 “ Mary, will you drive my father delirious with your in¬ 
 terference with his wishes ? ” 
 
 “ No, Florry, not when I am convinced that such are his 
 wishes. I know that in health he is no more a Papist than 
 you or I; yet, now I see him clinging to that rosary and 
 crucifix, what am I to think? If you can explain this 
 mystery, do so, Florry.” 
 
 “ The day that you were at Mrs. Carlton’s, learning to 
 make that custard my father likes so well, the Padre came, 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 45 
 
 and kindly sat with him some time. He Game the next 
 night, and the next; and read and prayed with him. I 
 hope you are satisfied now that there is no intrusion.” All 
 this was whispered so low as not to reach the ears of the 
 invalid. 
 
 “ Were you present at any of these interviews, Florry ? 99 
 
 “ No ; they always preferred being alone.” 
 
 “ Oh ! why did you not tell me this before ? ” 
 
 “ I am sure I can’t see what you are so excited about I 
 If my father chooses to become a Catholic, I should think 
 it would relieve you to know that he realizes his situation . 99 
 She turned resolutely away as she finished speaking, and 
 seated herself beside the bed. 
 
 Mary left the room almost stunned by the discovery she 
 had made ; and scarce knowing what to do, wrapped her 
 shawl about her, and walked quickly to Mrs. Carlton’s. 
 To her she related all she had just learned, and begged her 
 advice and assistance. 
 
 Mrs. Carlton was sorely puzzled and much distressed. 
 
 “ I fear, Mary, it is too late to remedy the evil.” 
 
 “ Oh, do not say so! I cannot bear that he should die in 
 that faith; he is too feeble to oppose anything they offer, 
 and is scarcely conscious of his own actions. In health, 
 they dared not approach him ; for they knew full well that 
 he scorned their creed, and disliked their Padre. Yet now 
 that he is so weak, in both body and mind, they hope to in¬ 
 fluence him. Oh, how could Florence be so blind ! Dear 
 Mrs. Carlton, come and reason with him. I know he es¬ 
 teems you very highly, and your opinion might weigh with 
 him.” 
 
 “ Indeed, my dear child, I will do all in my power to dis¬ 
 suade him from the unfortunate course he has taken, but 
 not to-night; he must be wearied very much already. I will 
 come in the morning.” 
 
 Early the ensuing day she fulfilled her promise, and in 
 Florence’s presence strove to elicit his views and belief. To 
 her surprise he refused to hold any conversation on the sub¬ 
 ject ; declaring that his mind was made up, and that he was 
 determined to die a member of the holy Catholic Church. 
 
 Before she could frame a reply, they were startled by the 
 sound of a struggle at the door, and the next moment it waa 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 49 
 
 flung wide open, and Father Mazzolin, livid with r.age, rushed 
 in. Mrs. Carlton rose with gentle dignity, and inquired his 
 business. He heeded not her question, but strode to the 
 bed, and whispered in Mr. Hamilton’s ear. The invalid, in 
 a voice so feeble that it was scarce audible, requested them 
 to leave him with the Padre for an hour, as he wished to 
 converse with him alone. Mrs. Carlton perfectly well under¬ 
 stood that he but repeated the priest’s orders, and perceiving 
 that nothing could now be effected, left the room accom¬ 
 panied by Florence. But Mary clung to the bed, and re¬ 
 fused to go. 
 
 “ You have taken advantage of my uncle’s weakness to 
 force yourself where your presence is unwelcome, and I will 
 not leave him when he is too weak to oppose your orders.” 
 
 He strove to force her out, but she clung firmly to the 
 bed ; and muttering an oath between his teeth, he turned 
 to the sufferer, and spoke in an unknown tongue; a feeble 
 response in the same language seemed to satisfy him, and 
 darting a triumphant glance at the kneeling girl, he seated 
 himself, and conversed for nearly an hour. Then offering 
 up a Latin prayer, departed, promising to come again. 
 
 Mrs. Carlton had not left the house ; she waited anxiously 
 for Mary. And when Florence re-entered the sick room, 
 the former hastened to her friend. 
 
 “ Oh, I did all I could to prevent it! ” cried Mary, in 
 despair. “ All is over, I am afraid. I was sitting on the 
 doorstep, preparing some arrowroot, when I saw Aunt 
 Lizzy go out the gate. I thought it strange at the time of 
 day, but never suspected the truth. Presently I saw her 
 coming back with the priest, and knew in an instant she had 
 gone for him. I was determined to prevent his seeing my 
 uncle, if possible, and fastened the front door. Before I 
 could lock my uncle’s, he wrenched open the window, and 
 sprang in. I tried to put the key in my pocket, and told 
 him he could not go in then ; but he made Aunt Lizzy hold 
 one of my hands, while he forced open my fingers and took 
 the key. Oh l that Dr. Bryant had been here.” She showed 
 Mrs. Carlton the marks of his grasp on her wrist. “ Tell, 
 oh, tell me what I can do to save him ! ” 
 
 “ Alas ! nothing, Mary. He is completely under the con¬ 
 trol of the Padre, and no reasoning will avail him now.” 
 
 4 * 
 
5 ° 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 With a sad heart Mrs. Carlton took leave, advising Mary 
 “ to offer no further resistance, as it was now impossible t£ 
 convince her uncle of his error.” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 * He’s gone—his soul hath ta’en its earthless flight. 
 
 Whither ? I dread to think—but he is gone ! ” 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Mr. Hamilton, though perfectly conscious that his end 
 was rapidly approaching, had scrupulously avoided the sub 
 ject in the presence of the girls. One morning, after a 
 night of more than ordinary suffering, he lay quite exhausted 
 Death was at hand, and feeling intuitively that the appointed 
 hour had arrived, he requested all to withdraw, save Florence. 
 When they were alone, he laid his hand on her head, and 
 said, in a low, feeble tone—“ Florence, I am going. I cam 
 not survive this day, and I wish to give you my last advice. 
 I am afraid your lot will be a hard one, when I am gone $ 
 trials without number are in store for you. Oh ! my proud- 
 hearted, beautiful Florence, what will become of you now ? n 
 He covered his face with his hands a moment, then con¬ 
 tinued—“ I do not wish you to return to your native placee 
 My child must be dependent on no one, yet to leave you here 
 so unprotected, is hard indeed. Dr. Bryant has promised 
 to watch over you, and the Carltons are kind friends. Flor* 
 ence, you must depend upon yourself. Thank God, you 
 are strong-minded, and Mary, our kind, good Mary, will be 
 near, to comfort and assist you. I am growing weaker, but 
 there is one more thing I wish to say.” 
 
 He paused, and for the first time Florence spoke. 
 
 “ My father, tell me every wish; fear nothing for me, 
 there is nothing I cannot bear now.” 
 
 “ For my sake. Florence, if not for your own, will you 
 promise to be guided by Father Mazzolin ? ” 
 
 “ Do you mean in matters of religion, my father ? ” 
 
 “ I mean in all things: matters of interest, as well as mat* 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 5 * 
 
 ters of faith. He will assist you much, if you will but fol¬ 
 low his advice and directions.” 
 
 There was a pause, and then Florence said slowly, as if 
 weighing every word—“ Rest assured your wishes shall be 
 my law. I will consult the Padre as you desire.” 
 
 With a look of relief the dying man sank back on his pil¬ 
 low, and closed his eyes. Florence quickly summoned the 
 physician, and her aunt and cousin, A little while after, as 
 Mr. Hamilton’s eye fell on the weeping Mary, he extended 
 his hand, and when she bent over him, drew her face down, 
 and imprinted a long kiss on her pale cheek. Even as he 
 did so, a dark form glided to the bedside. Another mo¬ 
 ment, the uncle and niece were separated ; none knew how, 
 yet the Padre stood between, whispering low in the suf¬ 
 ferer's ear. Almost gasping for breath, the latter intimated 
 his desire to confess for the last time. And they were left 
 alone. 
 
 Nearly an hour after, the priest entered the apartment 
 where Florence and Mary sat. He trembled visibly, yet, in 
 his usual tone, said that he wished the family to be present 
 at the last rites about to be performed for the dying Papist. 
 They immediately repaired to the sick room, and the spec¬ 
 tacle there presented made Mary quiver in every limb. The 
 sufferer had been placed for convenience on a low couch, 
 and was supported by pillows in an upright position. A 
 dozen candles burnt around him, and a cloud of incense 
 wreathed slowly along the wall. The room had been pro¬ 
 fusely sprinkled with holy water, and a chalice containing 
 the consecrated wafer, sat near. Gasping for breath, Mr. 
 Hamilton clasped a crucifix to his lips, though unable from 
 weakness to secure it there ; for twice it fell from his fin¬ 
 gers, and rolled to the floor. 
 
 Father Mazzolin, attired in a surplice ornamented with 
 the insignia of his order, stood beside the bed, holding in 
 one hand a superbly-bound volume—in the other, a silver 
 cup containing oil. 
 
 After a moment’s pause he opened the book, and hur¬ 
 riedly read in a low, muttering tone, a Latin service of sev¬ 
 eral pages. At the conclusion he carefully poured out a 
 ' few drops of the oil, and just touched the palms of the suf¬ 
 ferer’s hands and the soles of his feet, bidding him at the 
 
5 2 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OP THE ALAMO. 
 
 same time cross himself. Perceiving that he was utterly 
 unable to do so, he hastily signed the figure and resumed 
 his reading. How long he would have gabbled on it is im¬ 
 possible to say, but a gasping sound from the dying man 
 declared that dissolution was at hand, and, snatching the 
 chalice, he hastily administered the wafer, which was swal¬ 
 lowed with difficulty. For the third time, Father Mazzolin 
 strove to replace the crucifix in his hand and bend it to his 
 lips. The cold fingers refused to clasp the consecrated 
 wood, and sank, stiffened and powerless, by his side. 
 
 Mary had gazed mournfully on as this mummery was 
 enacted. A death-bed for a theater, weeping relatives an audi¬ 
 ence, and Father Mazzolin an amateur performer. Aunt 
 Lizzy was kneeling beside the Padre, ever and anon invoking 
 the Virgin ; while Florence sat with her face in her hands, al¬ 
 most as unconscious of what passed as her dying parent. 
 She bent over him now, and in heartrending accents con¬ 
 jured him not to leave her. He struggled in vain to utter 
 words of comfort; they died away in whispers, and, with a 
 slight moan, the spirit returned to the God that gave it. 
 The Padre snatched his hat and hastily left the house, while 
 Mary gave vent to an uncontrollable burst of sorrow. Flor¬ 
 ence seemed suddenly frozen, so rigid was her countenance, 
 as she gazed on the cold form before her. She neither wept 
 nor moaned, but closed the eyes with a long, long kiss, and 
 drawing a sheet over the marble features, turned, with a 
 slow, unfaltering step, away. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 “For now that Hope’s last ray is gone. 
 
 Sure Lethe’s dream would bless : 
 
 In grief to think of bliss tha’ts flown. 
 
 Adds pangs to wretchedness.” 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 A fortnight had passed, and again it was evening. In 
 the small dining-room of Florence Hamilton’s humble home 
 Was assembled the now diminished family circle. Florence 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO, 
 
 53 
 
 sat sadly apart, leaning her head, with closed eyes, against 
 the window. The tea bell rang; she lifted her head, 
 glanced round the room, and wearily dropped her brow 
 again on its resting-place. Mary approached, and taking 
 her hand, said, in a gentle, winning tone, “ Come, Florry 
 dear.” 
 
 “ Eat your supper, Mary; I do not wish any.” 
 
 “ But you have not eaten anything to-day, and need some¬ 
 thing ; do try, for my sake.” 
 
 “ I cannot. If you knew how both head and heart ache, 
 you would not urge me.” 
 
 Mary turned away, and ate the usually joyous meal with 
 a heavy heart. Florence had left her seat, and was stand¬ 
 ing in the door: as her cousin rose from the table she beck¬ 
 oned to her, and passed hurriedly out. Mary strove to catch 
 her arm, but she hastened on, as if trying to escape from 
 herself. Suddenly she paused by the river side, and clasped 
 her hands convulsively over her head. 
 
 “ Mary 1 Mary ! you know not what I suffer.” 
 
 “ Florry, sit down, and lean your weary head on my 
 shoulder.” 
 
 She dipped her hand in the water, and dashed the cold, 
 sparkling drops on her cousin’s burning brow, speaking the 
 while in a low, soothing tone. Florence rested a few 
 moments in her cousin’s arms, then threw herself on a 
 grassy bank, and covered her face; one long, deep groan 
 alone attesting her mental anguish. Mary wept more 
 bitterly than she had yet done; still, she was so quiet, none 
 would have known her grief, save from the tears that fell 
 over her hand and arms. Can it be, that the spirits of 
 departed friends hover near us while on earth, and draw 
 closer in hours of woe ? If so, why is it denied to the 
 suffering one to hear again the dear accents of the “ loved 
 and lost ? ” Why may not their silver pinions fan the burn¬ 
 ing brow of sorrowing mortality, and the echo of Heaven’s 
 own melody murmur gently, “ Peace, peace and joy for ever¬ 
 more ? ” 
 
 Florence stood up before her cousin; all trace of emotion 
 had passed away, and left her calm. The bright moon 
 shone full on her face. Oh ! how changed since the 
 morning she stood in Madame-’s schoolroom. The 
 
54 
 
 StfEZ : A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 large dark eyes were sunken; the broad brow marked with 
 lines of mental anguish ; the cheeks colorless, and her long 
 raven hair tossed back, and hanging like a veil below her 
 slender waist. There was a hollow, wasted look in every 
 feature; the expression was one of hopeless misery, and a 
 something there was which made the heart ache, yet the 
 haughty glance of other days might still be seen. 
 
 “ Mary, look at me 1 ” 
 
 “ Well, Florry, I have looked at you, and sad enough it 
 makes me feel.” 
 
 “ I am changed Mary, strangely changed, am I not ? 
 Answer me truly.” 
 
 “Yes, you look weary and ill; but why do you ask me 
 such a question ? You have had cause to look pale.” 
 
 “ Ah 1 you say truly ; but, Mary, have you never suspected 
 that a secret grief was freezing the life-blood in my cheeks ? ” 
 
 “ Florry, what do you mean ? I am afraid you are 
 feverish l ” and Mary laid her hand anxiously on her cousin’s. 
 It was flung contemptuously off. 
 
 “ Mary, listen to what I have to say. I am in a strange 
 mood to-night, and you must not contradict me. Where 
 shall I begin ? When my mother died I was four years old, 
 they say, and a very delicate child. My mother 1 how 
 strange it sounds. Yet I can at times faintly remember her 
 beautiful face. Very faintly, as in a dream, I have seen an 
 angel visitant. My mother, why did you leave your hapless 
 babe ? Oh! why ? my mother 1 I was left much to myself, 
 and followed unrestrained my own inclinations. You know 
 my fondness for books ; that fondness was imbibed in girl¬ 
 hood, as I wandered in my own sunny home—my lost home. 
 My father taught me to conceal my emotions—to keep down 
 the rising sob, to force back the glittering tear ; and when I 
 smiled over some childish grief, applauded my stoicism. I be¬ 
 came unnatural, cold, haughty, but not unfeeling. I remem¬ 
 ber well how your pale face and mourning dress touched my 
 heart, and waked my sympathies. From that hour I lavished 
 my love on my father and yourself. Years passed and we 
 went to New Orleans—” Here Florence paused, and 
 closed her eyes for a moment, but quickly resumed—“ You 
 know how I studied. Mary, was it merely from love of 
 metaphysics and philosophy, think you? No. not Mr. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 55 
 
 Stewart’s look of surprise and pleasure as, one by one, I 
 mastered various intricacies, was the meed for which I 
 toiled. Mary, from the first day we met, I loved him, for 
 his was a master spirit. I worshiped him in my inmost 
 soul, and he loved me in return. I know—I feel that he 
 did. Yet he was even prouder than myself, and would 
 have scorned to speak of love to one who never smiled in 
 his presence. Oh 1 often when he stood beside my desk 
 giving instruction, my heart has sprung to him. I have 
 longed to hear the words of tenderness that welled up from 
 his heart, but scorned to tremble on his lips. No look of 
 love ever fell on me. His glance was cold and haughty. 
 Oh, how inconsistent is woman I I yearned for his love; 
 yet, had he tendered it, under my haughtiness would have 
 dropped my idol—have shivered it at my feet. Weeks 
 passed, and while near him I knew no sorrow; but the 
 morning of my life was destined to be short. The cloud that 
 had lowered on the horizon suddenly darkened around. 
 That never-to-be-forgotten letter came, and I saw a great 
 gulf open at my feet. An invisible hand placed Dudley 
 Stewart on one brink, and I was left upon the other; and 
 an unknown messenger thundered the decree of separation 
 — 4 Forget the past and live again in the future ! 9 I started 
 as from a frightful dream. The cold reality forced itself 
 upon me. Mary, a suspicion stole into my heart, and stung 
 me. I thought for a brief time that Mr. Stewart loved you, 
 and whose hand may register the darkened thoughts that 
 crowded bitterly up ? The morning we left New Orleans, 
 I went into the schoolroom for our books. Ah I who may 
 know the agony of that hour ! I sat down in his chair, and 
 laid my head on his desk, and groaned in mine anguish of 
 spirit. Oh 1 Mary, that was the blackest, bitterest hour of 
 my life. I had fancied he loved me : I feared I was de¬ 
 ceived; I hated—despised myself for my weakness. Yeti 
 could not reproach him ; he had never sought my love. 
 
 “ I had just risen from his desk when Mr. Stewart came 
 in. He did not seem to see me, but took a seat near the 
 door. I was well-nigh exhausted, but strove to appear as 
 cold and indifferent as ever. I gathered up my books and 
 turned to go, then he laid down his pen, and came to me, 
 
 “ ‘ I believe you and your cousin leave to-day ? 1 
 
5 & 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 444 Yes. in this evening’s boat,’ I answered, much as 
 usual. 
 
 44 4 1 wish you a safe and pleasant voyage. My kindest 
 adieux to your cousin. Good-by, Miss Hamilton.’ 
 
 44 He held out his hand. I said 4 good-by ’ as clearly and 
 coldly as himself. Our hands met but an instant: there 
 was no pressure—no warmth, and then he opened the door 
 for me to pass. As he did so our eyes met; his glance was 
 calm and cold, but his lips were firmly compressed. Had 
 he looked sad, mournful, or tender, I should have passed 
 out and triumphed ; but my overtasked strength gave way; 
 a cold shudder crept through my frame, and consciousness 
 forsook me. I never fainted before or since. When I re* 
 vived, I raised my head and looked about me. I was re¬ 
 clining on a couch; he kneeling beside me, calmly, as he 
 would have stood in class. He held my hand, and pressed 
 it warmly. 
 
 44 4 Are you better now, Florence ? ’ 
 
 4 4 4 Oh, yes, .thank you,’ I said, and rose to my feet. 
 
 44 He still held my hand. I withdrew it, and turned to 
 the door. He placed himself before it, and said— 4 Florence, 
 it was well done ; you are an admirable dissembler, but I 
 am not deceived. You love me, and have for long, yet I 
 freely acknowledge your love can never exceed my own. I 
 love you better than my life, though perfectly aware that we 
 are now parted forever. I am a poor tutor, dependent on 
 my daily exertions for subsistence; you the cherished 
 daughter of a wealthy and ambitious parent.’ 
 
 44 He drew me to him, and imprinted a long kiss on my 
 lips ; then put me gently back, and left the room. 
 
 44 I never saw him again, but did I doubt his love? No, 
 no ! I would sooner doubt my own existence. We em¬ 
 barked, as you know, in the evening. That night was beauti¬ 
 ful—just such a one as this—serene and heavenly. I stole 
 out on deck when others slumbered, and for a long weary 
 hour paced to and fro. There was a wild tumult in my soul 
 which would not be stilled, and every restraining effort but 
 fanned the flame that raged within. A never-to-be-forgotten 
 contest was waged that night, and my heart was the arena. 
 My guardian angel whispered low, 4 Forget the past as a 
 feverish dream ; it is not well for thee; forget, forget 1 ’ But 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO 57 
 
 the heaven-born accents were suddenly drowned by the 
 wild shriek of my dark destiny—‘Of Lethe’s waters thou 
 shalt never taste! I have shattered the goblet at thy feet, and 
 scattered the draught to the winds of heaven ! Behold the 
 apotheosis of thine idol I At this shrine shalt thou bow ever¬ 
 more—evermore ! ’ 
 
 “ A new impulse was implanted within me ; and, impo¬ 
 tent to resist, I was impelled onward, and onward, till a 
 chasm yawned at my feet. Yet a moment I trembled on the 
 brink, then plunged desperately forward. Mary, listen. I 
 knelt on the damp, glistening deck, and implored Almighty 
 God to register my words in heaven. In his awful name 
 and presence, I solemnly swore to love Dudley Stewart 
 alone—to be his wife, or go down to the tomb as Florence 
 Hamilton. I rose up calm—the fierce warring was stilled. 
 Yet it was not inward peace that succeeded. My fate was 
 sealed—the last page of destiny transcribed. 
 
 “ Time passed on, oblivious of the darkened hours it bore 
 on its broad bosom. Mary, I have watched for one loved 
 form, and listened for that calm, proud step. I have loved, 
 and trusted, and believed that we should meet again. De¬ 
 luded Florence! a period is put to thy hopes and fears l 
 Mary, he is married! All is over for me. The dull, heavy 
 weight resting upon my heart will soon crush out the life 
 spark, and lay low my proud head. Ah 1 my cousin, you 
 weep. I wish that I could; but tears have been too often 
 scornfully repulsed ; they come not now at my call. Oh, 
 Mary, I am weary, weary! I long for rest, even the rest 
 of the dark, still tomb! I have no hope—no wish. I am 
 passive now. At last nature has broken the bonds so long 
 forced upon her, and the reaction is strong indeed. You 
 ask how I received my information : ah! you need not doubt 
 its authenticity. Aunt Lizzy and his mother were old friends, 
 and she received a letter the day before my father died, an¬ 
 nouncing his approaching union with a beautiful cousin ! I 
 am deservedly punished: I worshiped the creature and for¬ 
 got the God. I needed a desperate remedy, and it is ad¬ 
 ministered.” 
 
 As Florence concluded she leaned heavily against a tree, 
 and raised her eyes to the jeweled vault above. Just then a 
 dense black cloud, which had floated up from the west, passed 
 
JNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 5 * 
 
 directly over the moon, obscuring the silvery rays. She 
 pointed to it, and said, in a low, mournful voice—“ How 
 typical of my life and heart ; shut out from joy and hope in 
 one brief hour, unlike it ever to be brightened again.” 
 
 “ Oh I Florry, dear Florry! turn to God for comfort and 
 succor in this hour of need. He will enable you to bear 
 this trial, and go steadily on in the path of duty.” 
 
 “ Mary, I have no incitement to exertion ; nothing to 
 anticipate. My future is blank and dreary. I know my lot 
 in life ; I have nothing to hope for.” 
 
 “ Not so, Florry. Your future life will be an active one. 
 Are we not dependent on our exertions for subsistence ? and 
 does not our little school open to-morrow ? Cheer up, dar¬ 
 ling ! all may yet be bright. Bury the painful remembrances 
 of the past; believe me, peace, if not joyousness, will surely 
 follow the discharge of your duties.” 
 
 “ I cannot forget the past. Had he sought my love, I 
 could scorn him for his baseness ; but it is not so. I almost 
 wish it were. Yet I know and feel that he loves me; and 
 oblivion of the past is as impossible for him as myself. I 
 know not what strange impulse has induced me to tell you 
 all this. I did it half unconsciously, hoping for relief by 
 revealing that which has pressed so heavily on my heart. 
 Mary, never speak to me of it again ; and, above all, do not 
 mention his name. It has passed my lips for the last time, 
 and all shall be locked again within my own heart. We will 
 open the school to-morrow; and may God help me, Mary, 
 pray, oh, pray for me ! I had no mother to teach me, and 
 prayer is a stranger to my lips.” 
 
 She walked hurriedly to the house, and shut herself with¬ 
 in her own apartment. 
 
ss 
 
 ±NEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 \ 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 * Freedom calls you ! Quick! be ready j 
 Think of what your sires have been : 
 
 Onward! onwara ! strong and steady, 
 
 Drive the tyrant to his den." 
 
 Percival. 
 
 How intoxicating is the love of power; and how madly 
 the votaries of ambition whirl to the vortex of that moral 
 Corbrechtan, which has ingulfed so many hapless victims. 
 Our own noble Washington stands forth a bright beacon to 
 warn every ruler, civil or military, of the thundering whirl¬ 
 pool. Father of your country I you stand alone on the 
 pedestal of greatness; and slowly rolling years shall pour 
 their waters into the boundless deep of eternity ere another 
 shall be placed beside you. 
 
 When Iturbide attempted to free his oppressed country- 
 men from the crushing yoke of Spanish thraldom, Liberty 
 was the watchword. Success crowned his efforts—sov¬ 
 ereign power lay before him. He grasped it, and made him¬ 
 self a despot. Ambition hurled him from the throne of the 
 Montezumas, and laid his proud head 13w. A new star rose 
 on the stormy horizon of the west; pure and softly fell the 
 rays on the troubled thousands round. The voice of the 
 new-comer said “ Peace,” and the wild tumult subsided. 
 Ten years passed; Santa Anna culminated. The gentle 
 tones of the arch-deceiver were metamorphosed into the 
 tiger’s growl, the constitution of 1824 subverted in a day* 
 and he ruled in the room of the lost Iturbide. 
 
 • • • • <* * 
 
 The Alamo was garrisoned. Dark bodies of Mexican 
 troops moved heavily to and fro, and cannon bristled from 
 the embrasures. The usually quiet town was met am or* 
 phosed into a scene of riot and clamor, and fandangos, at 
 which Bacchus rather than Terpsichore presided, often 
 
6o 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 welcomed the new-born day. The few Americans * in San 
 Antonio viewed with darkened brows the insolent cavaliers. 
 The gauntlet was flung down—there was no retraction, no 
 retreat. They knew that it was so, and girded themselves 
 for a desperate conflict. 
 
 The declaration of independence was enthusiastically 
 hailed by the brave-hearted Texans, as they sprang with one 
 impulse to support the new-born banner, that floated so 
 majestically over the sunny prciries of their western home. 
 Mechanic, statesman, plowboy, poet, pressed forward to the 
 ranks, emulous of priority alone. A small, but intrepid 
 band, they defied the tyrant who had subverted the liberties 
 of his country; defied Santa Anna and his fierce legions, 
 and spurned the iron yoke which the priests of Mexico 
 vainly strove to plant upon their necks. Liberty, civil and 
 religious, was the watchword, and desperately they must 
 struggle in the coming strife. 
 
 Manuel Nevarro had eagerly enlisted in the Mexican 
 ranks, and in a few weeks after General Cos’s arrival, 
 donned his uniform. Thus accoutered, he presented himself, 
 for the first time since their disagreement, before Inez, who 
 had but recently returned from San Jose, doubting not that 
 her admiration of his new dress would extend to him who 
 filled it. In truth, his was a fine form and handsome face ; 
 yet sordid selfishness, and, in common parlance, “ a deter¬ 
 mination to have his own way,” were indelibly stamped upon 
 his countenance. 
 
 Inez was busily preparing the evening meal when he 
 entered; and though perfectly aware of his presence, gave 
 no indication of it. He stood aside and watched her move¬ 
 ments, as she shaped and turned the tortillas. Presently 
 she began to sing 
 
 “ He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
 
 And through the streets directs his course— 
 
 Through the streets of Gacatin, 
 
 To the Alhambra spurring in, 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama. 
 
 * It doubtless appears absurd to confine the title of “Americans ” to 
 the few citizens of the United States who emigrated to Texas, when all 
 who inhabit the continent are equally entitled to the appellation. Yet 
 the distinction is Mexican ; “ Los Americanos ” being the name amolied 
 to all who are not of Spanish descent 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO, 61 
 
 il And when the hollow drums of war 
 Beat the loud alarm afar, 
 
 That the Moors of town and plain 
 Might answer to the martial strain, 
 
 Wo is me, Alhama. 
 
 As the mournful cadence died away, she turned, and 
 started with well-feigned surprise on meeting the piercing 
 glance fixed upon her. 
 
 “ Ah, Manuel 1 ” She held out both hands, with a most 
 amicable expression of countenance. He grasped them, 
 and would have kissed her beautiful lips, but she slipped 
 adroitly to one side—“ No, no! Manuel. I’ll not permit 
 that till I am Senora Nevarro.” 
 
 “ And when will that be, Sehorita ? ” 
 
 “ Not till the war is over.” 
 
 “ But it has not begun yet; and it will be many moons 
 before we whip these cursed Americanos.” 
 
 “ How many, think you, Manuel ? ” 
 
 “ I can’t tell, Inez ; therefore we will not wait till the war 
 is over. The Padre is ready any time, and why not marry 
 at once ? ” 
 
 “ Sacra Dios 1 I’ll do no such thing.” 
 
 “ And why not, Inez ? ” 
 
 “ Because they might kill you, Manuel, and then what 
 would become of me ? ” 
 
 “ You would be as well off then as now; there would be 
 no difference, only you would be married. You will mourn, 
 any how, if I am killed.” 
 
 “ How do you know I would ? ” Her Spanish eyes 
 twinkled as she spoke; but for fear of going too far, she 
 laid her hand on his shoulder. Manuel turned sharply 
 round. 
 
 “ You deserve to be shot, Manuel, for joining in a miff. 
 Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be a soldier ? ” 
 
 He grasped her hand tighter, but made no reply. 
 
 “ I say, why did not you tell me first ? ” 
 
 “ And if I had told you, what then ? ” 
 
 “ Why, I should not have let you do it, you savage. If 
 you had only asked me, I might be willing to marry you 
 next week. But as it is, I am not going to be left a widow, 
 I can tell you,” 
 
€2 
 
 I 
 
 d'JEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAI/LG . 
 
 “ Inez, I don’t believe you care whether I am killed or 
 not I do not understand you at all.” 
 
 The girl’s eyes filled, and her lip quivered with emotion. 
 “ Manuel do you think me a brute ? There is nobody to 
 love Inez but her father and you. I am not cold-hearted.” 
 
 “ You speak truth, Inez ; and my uncle will not live very 
 long, for he has seen many years. When he is gone, there 
 will be nobody to take care of you but me ; so the sooner 
 we are married the better.” 
 
 “ Not so. You must come and see us as often as you 
 can till the war is over ; but I will marry no one now.” 
 
 “ Will you promise it shall be as soon as the war is over ? ’* 
 
 Inez coquettishly tossed her beautiful head, and advancing 
 to the fire, gaily exclaimed—“ While we talked the tortillas 
 burned. Come, eat some supper. I know they are as good 
 as those you get at the Alamo.” 
 
 Manuel seated himself on a buffalo-robe, and while par¬ 
 taking of the evening meal, Inez chatted away on indifferent 
 subjects, asking, during the conversation, what news had 
 been received from the Texan army. 
 
 “ We got news to-day that they are marching down to 
 Gonzales, but I am thinking they will find hot work.” 
 
 “ How many men may we number, Manuel, and think you 
 the chances are for us ? ” 
 
 “ By the blessed Virgin, if we were not ten to five Manuel 
 Nevarro would not eat his tortilla in peace. The Captain 
 says we will scatter them like pecans in a high wind.” 
 
 “ What bone is there to fight for at Gonzales ? ” 
 
 “ Cannon, Inez, cannon. Don’t you know we sent a 
 thousand men to bring it here, and the white rascal sent 
 five hundred to keep it there. By the Virgin, we will see 
 who gets it! ” 
 
 “ Holy Mother protect us! Manuel, take care of your¬ 
 self, man, and rush not into danger. It will profit you little 
 that we have many men, if some strong arm tells your length 
 on the sward.” 
 
 “ Never fear, Inez—never fear. We must not stop till 
 every American turns his back on the Alamo, and his face 
 to the East.” 
 
 “ But you will not harm those that live here in peace with 
 all men ? ” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 6 3 
 
 “ The Padre told our General, yesterday, that we must 
 fight till all submitted, or the last American child was driven 
 to the far bank of the Sabine.” 
 
 Inez laid her hand on his arm, and looking him full in 
 the face, asked, in a low tone—“ Manuel, would you help to 
 drive Mary from her home among us ? She who nursed me 
 in sickness, and bound the white bread to your bleeding 
 arm, and made the tea for my dying mother, when none 
 other came to help ? Manuel! Manuel! she is alone in the 
 world, with only her cousin. Spare Mary in her little home; 
 she hurts none, but makes many to die in peace.” 
 
 Manuel's face softened somewhat, but he replied in the 
 same determined tone—“ The Padre says she is an accursed 
 heretic, and he will not rest till she is far away. But I tell 
 you now, Inez, she will not be harmed; for he said he would 
 see that she was protected, and would himself take her to a 
 place of safety. He said she had been kind to our people, and 
 none should molest her or her cousin ; but leave all to him.” 
 
 “ If the Padre promised, he will place them in safety; he 
 never forgets to do what he says. I am satisfied, Manuel; 
 and for the rest of the Americans, the sooner they are 
 driven out the better.” 
 
 “ You say truly, Inez, the sooner the better: all, all shall 
 go, even their Doctor, that carries himself with such a lordly 
 air, and sits in saddle as though never man had horse be¬ 
 fore. But the moon is up; I must return, for I watch 
 to-night, and must be back in time.” He put on his hat as 
 he spoke. 
 
 “ Manuel, come as often as you can, and let me know 
 what is going on. You are the only one whose word I be¬ 
 lieve ; there are so many strange tales nowadays, I put 
 little faith in any. And before you go, put this crucifix 
 about your neck: ’twill save you in time of danger, and 
 think of Inez when you see it.” She undid the fastening 
 which held it round her own throat, and pressing it to her 
 lips, laid it in his hand. 
 
 Astonished at a proof of tenderness so unexpected, Man¬ 
 uel caught her in his arms, but disengaging herself, she 
 shook her finger threateningly at him, and pointed to the 
 door. He lighted his cigarrita, and promising to come 
 often, returned to the Alamo. 
 
 
6* 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Left alone, the Spanish maiden sought her own apart¬ 
 ment, muttering as she ascended the steps—“ The Padre 
 protect you, Mary ! Yes, even as the hawk the new chicken. 
 Take thee to a place of safety ! even as the eagle bears the 
 young lamb to his eyrie. Yes, Manuel, I have bound the 
 handkerchief about your eyes, You think I love you, and 
 trust both Padre and crucifix! Trust on, I too have been 
 deceived.” 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 More like somnambulism than waking reality was now 
 the life of Florence Hamilton. No duty was unperformed, 
 no exertion spared to conduce to the comfort of the now 
 diminished family circle. No words of repining or regret 
 were uttered—no tear dimmed the large dark eyes. She 
 moved and lived as it were mechanically, without the 
 agency of feeling or sympathy ; yet though she obtruded 
 her grief on none, it was equally true that no gleam of re¬ 
 turning cheerfulness ever lightened the gloom which envel¬ 
 oped her. A something there was in the hopeless, joyless 
 expression of her beautiful face, which made the heart 
 ache ; yet none offered sympathy, or strove to console her, 
 for she seemed unapproachable, with the cold, haughty 
 glance of other days. Painfully perceptible was the differ¬ 
 ence between Christian fortitude and perfect hopelessness— 
 gentle, humble resignation and despair. There was no 
 peace in her soul, for her future was shrouded in gloom : 
 she had no joys in anticipation. The sun of hope had set 
 forever to her vision, and she lived and bore her grief like 
 one who had counted the cost, and knew that for a little 
 while longer she must struggle on ; and that oblivion of the 
 past was dispensed only by the angel of death. She ac¬ 
 quiesced in Mary’s plan of opening a small school, and 
 unfalteringly performed her allotted task as assistant teacher. 
 Unexpected success had crowned their efforts, and fifteen 
 pupils daily assembled in the room set apart for the purpose. 
 Mary had feared opposition on the part of the p *dre, and 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 65 
 
 was agreeably surprised at the number of Catholic children 
 committed to her care. 
 
 One morning early in October, having finished her house¬ 
 hold duties, she repaired to the schoolroom for the day. 
 Florence was already at her post, though suffering from 
 violent nervous headache. Mary seated herself with her 
 back to the door, and called one of her classes. Arithmetic 
 it proved ; and if the spirits of the departed were ever al¬ 
 lowed to return in vindication of their works, the ghost of 
 Pythagoras would certainly have disturbed the equanimity 
 of the “ muchachos,” who so obstinately refused the assist¬ 
 ance and co-operation of his rules and tables. In vain she 
 strove to impress on one that 2 from 8 left 6. Like the 
 little girl that Wordsworth met, he persisted “ it was seven.” 
 Despairing at last, she remanded the class to their seats. 
 Anxious to facilitate the progress of her pupils, Mary spared 
 no pains to make perspicuous what to them appeared ob¬ 
 scure. The little savages could not, or would net under¬ 
 stand that the earth was like a ball, and not only turned 
 upon its own axis, but made the entire circumference of the 
 sun. A pair of globes could not be procured, and she taxed 
 her ingenuity for a substitute. Selecting two apples, one 
 enormous, the other medium size, she carefully introduced 
 a reed through the center of the smaller apple, thus causing 
 it to revolve on its axis. Calling up the tyros in geography, 
 she took the smallest, or “ Earth,” as she designated it, and 
 while causing it to perform the diurnal motion, she carried 
 it slowly round the larger, or “ Sun,” as she termed it; thus 
 illustrating the combined movements of our globe. Even 
 the dullest could not fail to comprehend; and well satisfied 
 with the result of her experiment, she carefully put her 
 planets by in one corner of the schoolroom, and proceeded 
 with her questions. The imperfect recitation finished, Mary 
 glanced across the room, hoping her cousin’s patience was 
 not so tried, and some brilliant coruscations in that direction 
 fixed her attention. Florence had dropped her aching head 
 on the desk in front, shading her eyes with her hand ; before 
 her, in dark array, stood some half dozen small boys just 
 beginning to spell. Each held a book containing illustra¬ 
 tions of various well-known articles and animals, having the 
 name beneath. 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 “ XJ-r-n—teapot. ” Elliot Carlton, whose seat was near, 
 gave a suppressed giggle. Florence looked around inquir¬ 
 ingly, then dropt her head again on her hand, bidding the 
 boy “ spell on.” 
 
 “ S-t-a-g—goat.” Elliot crammed his handkerchief 
 
 into his mouth, and Mary smiled. 
 
 “ W-i--g—curly head.” Florence was effectually roused 
 this time by a shout of laughter from Elliot, in which he 
 was joined by Mary, and Dr. Bryant, who had just entered 
 and was standing in such a position that no one had per¬ 
 ceived him. 
 
 “ Really, Miss Hamilton, I must congratulate you on the 
 extraordinary progress your pupils make; I was not aware 
 that you cultivated their powers of comparison in connection 
 with the .rudiments of orthoepy.” 
 
 “ To what do you allude, Doctor ; I am scarcely conscious 
 of what passes around me this morning,” said Florence, 
 wearily pressing her hand across her aching brow. 
 
 “ I am not surprised that you are somewhat stunned, 
 though, after all,” he continued, pointing to the picture of a 
 ringleted pate, “ the little fellow was not far wrong, for this 
 wig is incontestibly a curly head.” 
 
 With a faint smile, which passed as quickly as it came, 
 she dismissed the class with an additional lesson. 
 
 “ I am sorry to see you suffering so much this morning,” 
 said Frank, seating himself beside her: “ and should cer¬ 
 tainly not recommend this schoolroom as an antidote to nerv¬ 
 ous attacks. Miss Mary, why do you allow your cousin 
 to overtax her strength ? However, I bring you good news. 
 We have had an engagement at Gonzales, and, thank 
 Heaven, are victorious. The brave five hundred sent to 
 preserve the field-piece there, encountered double their num¬ 
 ber of the enemy, and not only saved the cannon, but scat¬ 
 tered the Mexicans in all directions. Our brave band are 
 marching to Goliad, where they expect to supply themselves 
 and comrades with ammunition; they have probably taken 
 the magazine before this, and are returning.” 
 
 “ Thank Heaven we have triumphed ! ” cried Mary, fer¬ 
 vently clasping her hands ; “ but oh! if the tide should turn 
 this way, what will become of us ? The Mexicans are 
 numerous here, and the Alamo strongly fortified and in 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 6j 
 
 their possession.” She turned her eyes inquiringly on 
 Frank, and started as she met the earnest, searching ex¬ 
 pression of his, bent full upon her face. 
 
 “ How pale you have grown of late,” he murmured as to 
 himself, and replied to her questioning glance—“ I think, 
 myself, there is much danger incurred by remaining here; 
 but rest assured you shall not be harmed. I am watching - 
 the signs of the times, and will warn you should peril ap¬ 
 proach.” 
 
 He took Florence’s hand, and pressed it as he spoke; 
 then turning to Mary, who had walked away, he said—“ I 
 must insist on your cousin having rest; she is weary and 
 too much excited, and you, who are a good nurse, must take 
 better care of her.” 
 
 “ Indeed, Doctor, I did my best to prevent her teaching 
 to-day, but she would not listen to my entreaties,” replied 
 Mary, with averted head. 
 
 “ If I might venture to advise yourself and cousin, Miss 
 Hamilton, I should suggest the discontinuance of your 
 school, at least for the present; for in these stormy times 
 one scarce knows what a day may bring forth: and, indeed, 
 your pupils are dropping off within the last few days, and 
 you had better disband voluntarily.” 
 
 “ I believe you are right, Doctor; and if Mary concurs 
 with us, I think we will follow your advice.” 
 
 “ Do as you think best, Florry; I suppose we would have 
 no pupils soon, even if we continued our efforts; yet I dis¬ 
 like very much to give up the school so very soon.” Her 
 voice faltered slightly, and her cheek grew paler. 
 
 “Your reluctance to dismiss these children, I am not sur¬ 
 prised at; and if it will relieve you in the least, allow me to 
 see their parents, and arrange all pecuniary matters. You 
 certainly feel no hesitation in confiding this to me.” 
 
 “ Thank you, Dr. Bryant, you are very kind; but we will 
 not burden you with an additional trouble. I prefer taking 
 these children home to their parents, who committed them 
 to my care; and as you and Florry think it advisable, we 
 will close our school this evening. Believe me, however, 
 that in refusing your kind offer, I am not insensible to, but 
 appreciate fully the motives which dictated it.” 
 
 “ Feel no hesitation in calling on me to perform any of 
 
68 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 the many services a gentleman friend may so often render. 
 If you knew how gladly I would serve you, I am sure you 
 would not fail to do so/’ 
 
 Shaking hands with Florence who stood near, he turned 
 to go, but paused at the threshold. 
 
 At this moment a slight disturbance in a distant corner of 
 the room attracted their attention, and springing forward, 
 little Maria Carlton exclaimed—“ Oh, Miss Mary, what do 
 you think ? Somebody has eat up the world, and bit a great 
 big piece out of the sun ! ” 
 
 When the merriment this excited had in some degree 
 subsided, Dr. Bryant laughingly said—“ I am much afraid 
 you have a Polyphemus among your pupils. Miss Mary, do 
 discover the incipient monster and eject him forthwith. 
 Heavens, what powers of digestion he must possess! Good 
 morning, ladies—good morning.” And with a bow he left 
 the house. 
 
 “ Florry, dear, do try and sleep some; I will do all that 
 is necessary about the children. True, there is not enough 
 to occupy me long, and meanwhile you must impart the 
 news of this victory to Aunt Lizzy.” 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 “ ——I might not this believe 
 Without the sensible and true avouch 
 Of mine own eyes.” 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Twilight had fallen slowly, for the evening was heavy 
 and wet, and dark masses of cloud driven by the northern 
 blasts sailed gloomily overhead. Nature wore a dreary 
 aspect, and one involuntarily turned inward for amusement 
 A bright light gleamed from the window of Florence Ham¬ 
 ilton’s humble home, and her little dining-room seemed by 
 contrast extremely cheerful; yet the hearts of its inmates 
 were more in accordance with the gloom which reigned 
 without. Aunt Lizzy, growing somewhat infirm of late, had 
 retired earlier than usual. Florence had been sewing al] 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 69 
 
 the afternoon, but now lay with closed eyes on the couch, 
 her hands clasped over her head. Mary sat near the table 
 holding an open volume, but her thoughts had evidently 
 wandered far away ; for her gaze was fixed abstractedly on the 
 fire which blazed and crackled at her feet. The girl’s coun¬ 
 tenance was an interesting study, as she sat rapt in her sad¬ 
 dened thoughts. A careworn expression rested upon her 
 face, as though some weighty responsibility too soon had 
 fallen on one so frail. The cheeks were very pale, and now 
 and then across the lips there came a quiver, as though she 
 struggled inwardly, and fain would give no outward show of 
 grief. In truth, an almost spiritual expression had come 
 over her features; the impress of some deep and hidden 
 sorrow, nobly borne, though chasing the rosy hue from her 
 cheeks. Sadder grew the look, and some acute pain 
 wrinkled her brow as she threw aside the book, and covered 
 her face with her hands; while a heavy, yet smothered sigh, 
 struggled forth, as if striving to relieve the aching heart. 
 
 The door opened noiselessly, and a dark shrouded form 
 glided with soft steps to the chair, and laid a heavy hand 
 on her shoulder. Mary raised her head, and starting up, 
 gazed inquiringly at the muffled face, while the intruder 
 pointed to the motionless form of Florence, and laid a fin¬ 
 ger on her lip. Then beckoning Mary to follow, she re¬ 
 ceded, with stealthy tread, to the door, which was softly 
 closed, and walked hurriedly on till she reached a large 
 rose-tree, which shaded the window. Mary shivered as 
 the piercing wind swept over her, and strove in vain to 
 suppress a fit of coughing. There was a moment’s silence. 
 
 “ You did not know me ? ” 
 
 Mary started. “ I did not, till you spoke ; but, Inez, what 
 brings you out on such a night ? ” 
 
 Inez took off the mantilla which had so effectually con¬ 
 cealed her features, and threw it round the frail, drooping 
 form before her. 
 
 “ No, no, Inez, you will take cold; ” and Mary tendered 
 it back. 
 
 It was tossed off contemptuously, and mingled with a 
 bitter laugh came the reply—“ I am not cold, Marinita, nor 
 ever shall be but once again. I am burning with an inward 
 fire that will not be quenched.” 
 
7 ° 
 
 ii 7EZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO, 
 
 “You are ill, Inez, and want some medicine \ tell me 
 where and how you suffer ?” 
 
 •• No, no. I want nothing from you or yours: I come 
 to help, not to ask. Mary, why is it you have made me 
 love you so, when I hate yonder dark-eyed girl ? But I am 
 losing time. I come to warn you of danger, and even now 
 I am watched; but no matter, listen to what I have to say. 
 The Padre hates you, even as—as I hate him, and has 
 sworn your ruin. I tell you now you must fly from San 
 Antonio, and fly quickly, for danger is at hand. My country¬ 
 men are many here, and he is stronger than all. You and 
 I have thwarted him, and the walls of a far off convent are 
 our destination—you, and your cousin, and myself. I am 
 at heart no Catholic; I have seen the devil, if there be one, 
 in my confessor. I have heard him lie, and seen him take 
 the widow’s and the orphan’s portion. Mary, if there was a 
 God, would he suffer such as my Padre to minister in his 
 holy place, and touch the consecrated vessels ? No, no; 
 there is none, or he would be cut off from the face of the 
 earth.” 
 
 “ Inez ! Inez ! stop and hear me.” 
 
 “ No, no ! time waits for none, and I have little more to 
 say. Mary, you are deceived ; your cousin is not what you 
 think. She is a Catholic; for mine own eyes have seen her 
 in the confessional, and mine own ears have listened to her 
 aves and paters.” 
 
 Mary uttered a deep groan, and clasped Inez’s arm, mur¬ 
 muring—“ You are—you must be delirious or mad : Florry 
 deceive me ! impossible ! ” 
 
 “ Ah ! poor deluded Mary : do you trust any on earth ? 
 Yet I would trust you, with your white face and soft blue 
 eyes ; and there is one other I would trust-—but no more. 
 You will not believe that Florence has turned from the faith 
 of her fathers ? Go to her as she sleeps yonder, and feel 
 with your own hand the crucifix around her neck. Ha! 
 you hold tight to my arm : I tell you your Cousin Florence 
 is as black-hearted as the Padre, for he told me she had 
 promised her dying father to follow his advice in all things, 
 yet she tells you not of this: and again, has she not won the 
 love of a good, a noble man, and does she not scorn his 
 love; else why m his cheek pale, and his proud step slow ? 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 71 
 
 Marinita, I have read you long ago. You love your Doc- 
 tor, but he loves that Florence, whose heart is black and cold 
 as this night You are moaning in your agony; but ali 
 must suffer. I have suffered more than you; I shall always 
 suffer. My stream of bitterness is inexhaustible ; daily I am 
 forced to quaff the black, burning waters. Ha ! I know my 
 lot—I swallow and murmur not. Mary, I am sorry to make 
 you drink so much that is bitter to-night; but you must, for 
 your own good; better a friend should hold the cup and let 
 you taste, than have it rudely forced upon you.” 
 
 “ Why have you told me this, Inez ? I never did you 
 harm, or gave you pain.” 
 
 “ Poor pale face ! I want to save you from worse than 
 death—yea, from a living death. Go from this place; for 
 if you are here a month hence, you will be lost. Your 
 people here will be defeated, and then the Mexicans will 
 hand you all over to the Padre, who says he means to put 
 you where you will be protected. Mark me: you will be 
 sent where no cry for succor will ever be heard. You will 
 be imprisoned for life, where none can come back to tell 
 the tale. Mary, go to your friends in the States ; or if you 
 cannot get there, go where your people are many, and take 
 your Doctor with you, for blood will yet run down these 
 streets, and I would not that his swelled the stream. He 
 has promised to watch over you; tell him to take you from 
 here—from this cursed place. I have crept from home this 
 dark night to tell you of your danger; I am watched, for the 
 Padre suspects me, but you were always good ; you nursed 
 me and my dying mother, and were kind to Manuel, and I 
 would risk more than I have to help you. I have done all 
 I can; I charge you, wait not till the last moment.” 
 
 Inez stretched out her hand for her mantilla, which she 
 folded closely about her face, and then clasped Mary’s hand 
 in hers. 
 
 “ Inez ! oh, Inez ! ” 
 
 “ Well, Marinita, I may not linger here. I will see you 
 again if I can ; but if we meet no more, forget not Inez de 
 Garcia, or the love she bears you; and as the greatest bless¬ 
 ing now for you, I hope you may soon find peace in the 
 quiet grave. I shall never find rest till I sleep that last, 
 unbroken sleep 1 ** 
 
72 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 “ Inez, my heart is wrung by what I have heard tonight; 
 but I beg of you, as a last favor, do not, oh, do not turn 
 away from God ! Inez, there is a God ; and death is not 
 an everlasting sleep. Hereafter is an awful tribunal; and 
 if not again on earth, you and I shall assuredly meet before 
 God. Oh! believe that he will yet bless you ; that he will 
 enable you to bear all earthly trials ; and, if faithful, he will 
 receive you at last into the kingdom of eternal rest. Try 
 to forget the past, and in this book you will find the path of 
 duty so clearly marked out, that you cannot mistake it. 
 5 Tis all I have about me, yet I pray God it may be the 
 greatest treasure you possess.” 
 
 She drew a small Bible from her pocket as she spoke, 
 and pressed it within Inez’s fingers, adding—“ I cannot 
 sufficiently thank you for your kindness in warning me of 
 my danger ; I shall leave this place as soon as possible, and 
 shall constantly pray that you may be spared and blessed.” 
 
 She held out her hands. Inez clasped them tightly for a 
 moment, and then glided down the walk as noiselessly as 
 she came. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 44 Be sure that you teach nothing to the people but what is certainly 
 to be found in Scripture.” 
 
 Bishop Taylor. 
 
 Mary Irving sought her chamber, and sinking on her 
 knees, fervently implored the blessing and guidance of Him 
 who is very precious help in time of need. She prayed for 
 strength to meet with Christian fortitude the trials which 
 awaited her, and in all the vicissitudes of her checkered life 
 to pursue unfalteringly the path of duty. She strove to collect 
 her scattered thoughts, and with what composure she could 
 assume, returned to the dining-room. The fire was burning 
 low on the hearth, and the single candle gave but a faint, 
 unsteady light. Florence was slowly pacing up and down 
 the floor; she raised her head as Mary entered, then sunk 
 it wearily on her bosom, and resumed her walk. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 n 
 
 “ Florry, come sit here by me—I want to consult you.” 
 
 “ Is it very important, Mary ? I feel to-night as though 
 I could comprehend nothing; let me wear off this dull pain 
 in my heart and head by walking, if possible.” 
 
 “ My dear Florry, it is important; and therefore you will 
 forgive me if I claim your attention.” 
 
 Florence seated herself, and as she did so, leaned her head 
 on Mary’s shoulder, while the latter wound her arm fondly 
 about her, and gently stroked back the raven hair from her 
 aching brow. 
 
 “ Since we broke up our school, I have been warned that 
 we are in danger, and advised to leave San Antonio as 
 speedily as possible ; for strife is evidently at hand, and a 
 battleground is no place for those so unprotected as you 
 
 and I.” 
 
 “ Dr. Bryant has promised to watch over us ; and surely 
 you have implicit confidence in both his judgment and honor. 
 What do you fear, Mary ? ” 
 
 “ Everything. We may remain here too long—till escape 
 • will be impossible ; and then who may predict with any degree 
 of certainty the chances of war ? That Dr. Bryant will do 
 all that a friend or brother would, I doubt not; but he may 
 be powerless to help when danger assails; and even if he 
 should not, to travel from here in stormy times would not 
 be so easy as you imagine.” 
 
 “ Who has been filling your head with such ideas ? It 
 could be none other than that dark-browed Inez.” 
 
 “ If she has, could aught but disinterested friendship 
 actuate her to such a course ? ” 
 
 “ Really, Mary, I should not have given you credit for so 
 much credulity. Do you place any confidence in what that 
 girl may tell you ? ” 
 
 “ I do rely on what she confides to me. Has she ever 
 given you cause to doubt her sincerity ? Indeed, Florry, 
 you do her injustice. I would willingly—God only knows 
 how willingly—doubt some portions of what I have heard 
 from her lips, but I dare not.” 
 
 “ Mary, can you not perceive that she is jealous of 
 us, and hopes, by operating on your fears, to drive us from 
 this place ? The Padre hinted as much to me not long 
 since.” 
 
74 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 “ Florry, it is for you to say whether Inez speaks truth. 
 From her lips I had the words—Your Cousin Florence is a 
 Papist, wears a crucifix about her neck, and kneels in the 
 confessional. Oh, Florry ! will you—can you—do you deny 
 the charge ? ” 
 
 The cousins stood up, and each gazed full upon the other. 
 Mary’s face was colorless as marble, and her hands were 
 tightly clasped as she bent forward with a longing, search¬ 
 ing, eager Iook. A crimson glow rushed to Florence’s very 
 temples; then receded, leaving an ashy paleness. 
 
 “ I am a member of the Church of Rome.” 
 
 Mary groaned and sank back into her chair, at this con¬ 
 firmation of her fears. Florence leaned against the chim¬ 
 ney, and continued in a low, but clear voice—“ I have little 
 to say in defense of what you may consider a deception. I 
 deny the right of any on earth to question my motives or 
 actions ; yet I would not that you, Mary, who have loved me 
 so long and truly, should be alienated, without hearing the 
 reasons which I have to allege in favor of my conduct. 
 Mary, think well when I ask you what prospect of happiness 
 there was for me a month since? Alone in the wide 
 world, with ruined hopes, and a long, long, joyless future 
 stretching gloomily before me. I was weary of life. I 
 longed for death, not as a passport to the joys of heaven 
 (for I had never sought or deserved them), but as bringing 
 rest, peace, and oblivion of the past. I viewed it only as a 
 long, last, dreamless sleep. Mary, I was groping my way 
 in what seemed endless night, when suddenly there came a 
 glimmer of light, faint as the first trembling rays of the 
 evening star, and just pierced the darkness in which I 
 wandered. The Padre came to me, and pointed to the 
 long-forgotten God, and bade me seek him who nath said, 
 come unto me all ye who are weary, and I will give you rest. 
 Mary, do you wonder that I clasped the hand outstretched to 
 save me, and besought him to lead me to the outraged and 
 insulted God? My eyes were opened, and looking down 
 the long, dark vista of the past, I saw how, worshiping a 
 creature, I built a great barrier between myself and heaven. 
 I saw my danger, and resolved, ere it was too late, to dedi¬ 
 cate the remainder of my life to him who gave it. The door 
 of the church was opened* and Father Mazzolin pointed out 
 
aNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 7£ 
 
 the way by which I might be saved. The paths seem 
 flowery, and he tells me the ways are those of pleasantness 
 and peace, and I have resolved to try them. Once, and once 
 only, I met him at confession, hoping, by unveiling my suffer* 
 ings to a man of God, to receive comfort of a higher order 
 than I might otherwise expect. He has granted me absolution 
 for the past, and I doubt not that in future the intercession of 
 the blessed saints in heaven will avail with my offended 
 Maker.” * 
 
 “ Florry, my own dear Florry! hear me, for none on earth 
 love you as I do. Do you not believe the Bible—God’s written 
 word ? Has he not said, ‘ there is one mediator between God 
 and man—the man Christ Jesus ? ’ Has not Christ made 
 propitiation for our sin, and assured us there is but one way 
 whereby we may be saved, repentance for our past sins and 
 faith in the sufficiency of his atonement ? Do you doubt the 
 efficacy of Christ’s suffering and death ? Tell me, Florry, 
 by what authority you invoke your saints ? Surely you do 
 so in opposition to the express declaration of the Bible al¬ 
 ready quoted—‘ there is 07 ie mediator between God and 
 man.’ ” 
 
 “ The holy Fathers of our church have been in the habit 
 of praying for the intercession of saints from the earliest 
 periods, and none have questioned their fervent piety, or 
 doubted the orthodoxy of their faith,” replied Florence. 
 
 “ In the first place,” said Mary, “ it would be ridiculous 
 in the extreme to advocate all the opinions and tenets ad¬ 
 vanced by those same Fathers. St, Augustine doubted the 
 existence of the antipodes; Tertullian emphatically pro¬ 
 nounced second marriages adultery; Origen denied the sin 
 of David in causing the death of Uriah, and has often been 
 accused of favoring Arianism, and the doctrine of transmi¬ 
 gration of soul; while it is a well-known fact, that Jerome, 
 to vindicate Peter from the charge of dissimulation, actually 
 accused St. Paul of lying, and thereby favoring deceit. In 
 the second place, are you quite sure that they were in the 
 habit of invoking saints ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly, Mary; for it is undeniable that St. Augustine 
 in his Meditations calls on the Blessed Virgin, and all the 
 angels and apostles in heaven, to intercede with God in his 
 behalf. Father Mazzolin pointed out the passage no later 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 7 6 
 
 than last week, to remove the doubts which I confess I en¬ 
 tertained, as to whether it was proper and in accordance 
 with the practise of the Fathers to implore such interces¬ 
 sion. ” 
 
 “ And does your conviction rest on so frail a basis ? 
 Hear what the Rev. Dr. Milner says on this subject, in the 
 first volume of his Ecclesiastical History ; ” and taking it 
 from the shelf, Mary read : 
 
 “ ‘ The book of Meditations, though more known to Eng¬ 
 lish readers than any other of the works ascribed to Au¬ 
 gustine, on account of the translation of it into our language 
 by Stanhope, seems not to be his, both on account of its 
 style, which is sententious, concise, abrupt, and void of any 
 of those classical elegancies which now and then appear in 
 our author’s genuine writings ; and also, on account of the 
 prayers to deceased saints which it contains. This last 
 circumstance peculiarly marks it to have been of a later 
 date than the age of Augustine. Frauds of this kind were 
 commonly practised on the works of the Fathers in the 
 monastic times.’ 
 
 “ And why, Florry, does it peculiarly mark it as spurious ? 
 Because, had he entertained these views on so vital a point, 
 the expression of them would most certainly have occurred in 
 his other very voluminous works. I have searched his Con¬ 
 fessions for instances of this invocation, either from himself 
 or anxious mother, and had he believed, as the Catholic 
 prelates assert, in this intercession of the dead, it would most 
 assuredly have been sought in the hour of his suffering and 
 fear, lest he should be given over. But I find none. On 
 the contrary, these two passages occur in his Confessions : 
 ‘ I now sought the way of obtaining strength to enjoy thee, 
 and found it not, till I embraced the mediator between God 
 and man, Jesus Christ, who is above all, God, blessed for¬ 
 ever, calling and saying I am the way, the truth, and the life.* 
 And here, Florry, is another extract from the same book still 
 more conclusive — 4 Whom shall I look to as my mediator ? 
 Shall I go to angels ? Many have tried this, and have been 
 fond of visions, and have deserved to be the sport of the 
 illusions which they loved. The true mediator, whom in 
 thy secret mercy thou hast shown to the humble, and hast 
 sent that by his example they might also learn humility, th« 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 77 
 
 man Christ Jesus 5 hath appeared a mediator between mortal 
 sinners and the immortal Holy One, that he might justify 
 the ungodly, and deliver them from death.’ Yet in your 
 manuals you are directed to say f Mother of God command 
 thy son ; 9 and one of your prayers, Florry, is as follows : 
 
 < Hail, Holy Queen ! Mother of Mercy—our life, our sweet¬ 
 ness, and our hope ! To thee do we cry, poor banished 
 sons of Eve, to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and 
 weeping in the valley of tears. Turn thee, most gracious 
 Advocate, thy eyes of mercy toward usd And at vespers 
 you say, 
 
 ‘Hail, Mary! queen of heavenly spheres, 
 
 Hail ! whom the angelic host reveres ! * 
 
 Florry, in all candor, let us investigate this subject; we will 
 consult both the Bible and the Fathers, or, if you prefer it, 
 by the words of the latter only we will decide; for truth we 
 are searching.” 
 
 “ Mary, let me read a second time those passages from St. 
 Augustine. Strange I should have been so deceived,” she 
 continued, as, having perused them, she returned the book 
 to her cousin. 
 
 “ Florry, can you perceive any encouragement there given 
 to the practise of invocation ? Does not St. Augustine ex¬ 
 pressly denounce it ? ” 
 
 “ There can be no doubt of his sentiments on this point; 
 but, Mary, this is only one decision, when I have been assured 
 that the united voices of many Fathers established it with¬ 
 out a doubt, even supposing there was no authority in Holy 
 Writ for such a custom— : which, however, we have, for did not 
 Jacob wrestle with an angel and did not his blessing descend 
 upon him ? ” 
 
 “ But Christ had not then died; neither had the Christian 
 dispensation succeeded to the old Jewish rites and customs. 
 If you will turn to Jeremiah, you will also read how the curse 
 of God was pronounced against the idolaters who offered in¬ 
 cense to the Queen of Heaven : yet you do the same. Still, 
 by the tradition of the elders, we will judge. Hear the words 
 of Paulinus on this subject—‘ Paul is not a mediator; he is 
 an ambassador for Christ. John intercedes not, but declares 
 that this mediator is the propitiation for our sin. The Son 
 
7 8 yjyEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 of Almighty God, because he redeemed us with the price of 
 his blood, is justly called the true Redeemer.’ Again, the 
 great and good Ambrose—‘ We follow thee, Lord Jesus, but 
 draw us up that we may follow. No one rises without thee. 
 Let us seek him, and embrace his feet, and worship him, 
 that he may say to us, Fear not. I am the remission of sin. 
 I am the light, I am the life. He that cometh to me shall 
 not see death ; because he is the fulness of divinity.’ One 
 more, Florry—‘ Come to yourselves again, ye wretched trans- 
 gressors ! Return ye blind to your light! Shall we not 
 believe God, when he swears that neither Noah, nor Daniel, 
 or Job, shall deliver one son or daughter by their righteous¬ 
 ness. For this end he makes the declaration, that none might 
 put confidence in the intercession of saints. Ye fools ! who 
 run to Rome to seek there for the intercession of an Apostle. 
 When will ye be wise? What would St. Augustine say of 
 you, whom ye have so often quoted ? ’ Such, Florry, are the 
 words of the celebrated Claud of Turin ; but as he is re¬ 
 garded by your church somewhat as a reformer, I will just 
 read one passage from Anselm, whose orthodoxy no Papist 
 ever questioned. Speaking of the intercession of Christ—- 
 1 If the people sin a thousand times, they need no other 
 Saviour ; because this suffices for all things, and cleanses from 
 all sin.’ Florry, we have jointly admired the character of 
 one of the earliest martyrs, St. Cyprian. Will you hear him 
 on this subject?—‘Christ, if it be possible, let us all follow. 
 Let us be baptized in his name. He opens to us the way of 
 life. He brings us back to Paradise. He leads us to the 
 heavenly kingdom. Redeemed by his blood, we shall be the 
 blessed of God the Father.’ Yet you say in your prayers, 
 ‘ We fly to thy patronage, oh! holy Mother of God ! ’ And 
 again— 
 
 ‘ Hail sacred gate.* 
 
 Florence, you have cited the Fathers: by their own words 
 are you not convinced as to intercession ? ” 
 
 “ Mary, I was asking myself if vital Christianity could 
 exist in any church which allows such a system of deceit on 
 the part of its clergy : for deceived I assuredly have been.” 
 
 “ You should remember, Florry, that the promulgation of 
 Papal doctrines, and the aggrandizement of the Romish 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 79 
 
 church, is the only aim of its priesthood; consequently, all 
 means which conduce to this great object are unscrupulously 
 employed. Even crime is sanctioned where the good of the 
 church can be promoted.” 
 
 “ Surely, Mary, you cannot mean what you say ? Crime 
 sanctioned by the Romish clergy! Impossible ! How dare 
 you make such an assertion ! ” 
 
 “ It doubtless strikes you, Florry, as strangely unchari¬ 
 table and unchristian ; yet, if you will consult the records 
 of the past, I venture to say you will think very differently. 
 What memorable event occurred on one of your saints’ days 
 —the 24th of August, 1572 ? At dead of night the signal 
 was given, and the Papal ministers of France perpetrated 
 the foulest deed that stains the page of history. Thirty 
 thousand Huguenots were butchered in their beds. And 
 what distinguished the murderer from the doomed victim ? 
 A white cross on the hat of the former. How did Imperial 
 Rome receive the tidings of this massacre ? The cannons 
 were discharged, the Pope ordered a jubilee and grand pro¬ 
 cession, and caused a Te Deum to be chanted. I ask you, 
 Florry, was not this sanctioning crime ? Again, how died the 
 great Henry IV ? The celebrated edict of Nantes sealed his 
 doom, and the infamous Ravaillac, for the good of the Rom¬ 
 ish church, conveniently forgot the commandment of Jehovah, 
 and meritoriously assassinated him. Florry, I have myself 
 heard a Papist say, ‘ that whatever her priest commanded, she 
 would unhesitatingly perform.’ Shocked at the broad asser¬ 
 tion, I replied : ‘ You surely do not know what you are saying. 
 Obey the priest in all things 1 Why, you would not commit 
 murder at his command ? ” 6 Certainly I would, if my priest 
 
 bid me ; for if I obey him, I cannot do wrong.’ I know 
 this to be true ; and I ask you what is the inference ? You 
 admit that you have been deceived. Pious frauds were com¬ 
 mitted in the time of Ambrose and Chrysostom ; yet hear 
 what St. Augustine says: 4 Lying is the saying of one thing, 
 and thinking of another; ’ and in all cases, even for most 
 pious purposes, he excludes lying as unchristian and anti- 
 scriptural.” 
 
 Florence was leaning with clasped hands on the table 
 gazing intently at her cousin ; while Mary knelt on the 
 other side, her hand resting on the large family Bible. The 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 So 
 
 light fell full on her pale face as she knelt; her chestnut 
 curls half vailing the pure white cheek, and the dark-blue 
 eyes, earnest, and yet almost angelic, in their gentle, loving 
 expression. 
 
 “ Oh, Florry ! need I implore you in future to look to 
 Christ alone as the author of our salvation ? ” 
 
 “ One more question, Mary. Is there not. a passage in 
 Revelations substantiating the doctrine of intercession ? 
 Father Mazzolin assured me the testimony was conclusive 
 in favor of that practise.” 
 
 “ The passages to which you allude are these: ‘And 
 another angel came and stood at the altar, having a golden 
 censor; and there was given unto him much incense, that 
 he should offer it, with the prayers of all saints, upon the 
 golden altar which was before the throne. And the smoke 
 of the incense which came with the prayers of the saints, 
 ascended up before God out of the angel’s hand.’ No word 
 of intercession occurs here ; and are we not as free to sup¬ 
 pose that the prayers so offered were in their own behalf 
 as that of their friends ? Had it been as the Padre tells 
 you, would not St. John have said intercession or prayers 
 in behalf of others ? ” 
 
 “ Mary, can you have mistaken the passage ? This can¬ 
 not be his boasted testimony.” 
 
 “ I know that these two verses are highly prized by 
 Papists, as establishing the doctrine in question ; yet I can¬ 
 not see them in that light—can you?” “No, no; and if 
 these are the strongest arguments they can adduce in the 
 defense of invocation, I reject it as a remnant of the dark 
 ages, during which period it certainly crept into the 
 church.” 
 
 “ If you do this, Florry, you cause the whole fabric to 
 totter, for on this doctrine, as a foundation, rests the arch, 
 of which confession is the keystone.” 
 
 “ ‘ Confess ye your sins, one to another,’ is very strong in 
 our favor, Mary ? ” 
 
 “ Florry, we are searching for truth, and let us in all 
 humility and candor investigate this particularly important 
 point. It seems to me that St. James’s meaning is this— 
 when we have offended or harmed our fellow-men or 
 brethren, we should make all the amends in our power,* 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 81 
 
 confess our faults unto them; implore their pardon, and ab¬ 
 stain from offensive conduct in future. Do you not think 
 that if he had intended us to interpret it differently, he 
 would have said—‘ Confess your faults unto your priest, and 
 he will give you absolution.’ Setting aside all bias, do you 
 not think this reasonable ; the more so, when we call to mind 
 those words of our Saviour in his sermon on the mount: 
 6 Therefore, if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there 
 rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee, leave 
 there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be 
 reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy 
 gift.’ If our Lord had intended the ordinance of confes¬ 
 sion, would he not have said on this occasion, ‘ First con¬ 
 fess thy sins unto thy priest, and when he has absolved 
 thee, then come with clean hands and offer thy gift.’ Mark 
 the difference, and ask your own heart if there is any en¬ 
 couragement here for confessing to your Padre ? ” 
 
 “If this passage of James were all we could adduce in 
 favor of confession, I should think with you, Mary ; yet it 
 is not so. When about to dismiss his Apostles on their 
 errands of mercy, Christ, said to them—‘ Peace be with 
 you; as my Father hath sent me, even so I send you;’ 
 and when he had breathed upon them, he said unto them 
 — £ Receive ye the Holy Ghost; whosesoever sins ye remit, 
 they are remitted unto them, and whosesoever sins ye re¬ 
 tain, they are retained.’ Now, Mary, do you not plainly 
 perceive that the power of forgiving sin was conferred upon 
 the Apostles ? ” 
 
 “ Most assuredly I do; and avow my belief that they 
 were enabled to forgive sin, and at the same time other 
 miraculous powers were conferred on the ‘ Twelve.’ * Then 
 he called his twelve disciples together, and gave them 
 power and authority over all devils, and to cure diseases.’ 
 We know that they cast out devils, restored the blind, 
 and raised the dead. Power to forgive sin was one among 
 many wonderful gifts conferred upon them. Yet you do 
 not believe that the power of raising the dead was trans¬ 
 mitted to posterity. How, then, can you say the gift of 
 absolution was ? ” 
 
 “ But, Mary, Christ says in another place—“ Thou art 
 Peter: and upon this rock I will build my church, and the 
 
82 
 
 sNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 gates of Hell shall not prevail against it. And I will give 
 unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatso¬ 
 ever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, 
 and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in 
 heaven.’ ” 
 
 “ I perfectly agree with you, Florry, in believing that 
 St. Peter had miraculous powers bestowed on him by our 
 Saviour; but it seems absurd to suppose that these powers 
 were perpetuated in the ministers of the Roman Catholic 
 Church. Our Saviour said, what ‘ Peter loosed, should be 
 loosed in heaven/ and not what Peter’s successors loosed 
 should be observed and loosed in heaven. We should not 
 judge of Christ’s views by isolated passages, but rather 
 from all his teachings ; for if we did, what would you say 
 to the verse just below those already quoted, ‘ And he said 
 unto Peter, Get thee behind me, Satan : thou art an offense 
 unto me: for thou savorest not the things which be of God, 
 but those that be of men.’ But this is wandering from the 
 subject. In St. Augustine’s Confessions, though I admit 
 somewhat abridged, I find nothing relating to confessing to 
 priests. This passage alone appears : ‘ O Lord, thou know- 
 est!—have I not confessed my sins to thee ? and hast thou 
 not pardoned the iniquity of my heart?’ Speaking of a 
 sudden illness during his boyhood, he says he eagerly de¬ 
 sired baptism, fearing to die, and his mother was about to 
 comply with his request, when he quickly recovered. Now, 
 had he considered confession necessary, would he not have 
 urged it upon all who read his Confessions, which you will 
 mark, Florry, were not made to a priest, but obviously to 
 God himself.” 
 
 There followed a long pause, while Florence dropped her 
 face in her hands and sighed heavily. 
 
 “ Florry, it is very late ; our candle has burnt low—see, it 
 is flickering in the socket; we have not heeded the lapse of 
 time.” She rose and replaced the books she had been 
 consulting. 
 
 “ Mary, Mary ! why have you shaken my faith ? I had 
 thought to find comfort in future, but you have torn my 
 hope from me, and peace flies with the foundations which 
 you have removed ! ” 
 
 “ Florry, you have been blinded, deceived. They have 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 83 
 
 cried unto you, Peace! peace! when there was no peace. 
 But oh! there is a source of rest, and strength, and com¬ 
 fort, which is to be attained not by confession, or the inter¬ 
 cession of the dead or living, but by repentance for the 
 past, and an active, trusting faith in the mediation of our 
 blessed Lord Jesus Christ.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 “ The purple clouds’ 
 
 Are putting on their gold and violet, 
 
 To look the meeter for the sun’s bright coming. 
 
 How hallowed is the hour of morning ! Meet— 
 
 Ay ! beautifully meet—for the pure prayer.” 
 
 Willis. 
 
 Morn broke in the East; or, in the beautiful language of 
 the Son of Fingal, “ Sol’s yellow hair streamed on the East¬ 
 ern gale.” Awakened by the first chirping of the feathered 
 tribe, Florence rose as the gray morning light stole into her 
 chamber, and seating herself at the window, looked out on 
 the town before her. Quiet reigned as yet, broken only by 
 the murmuring and gurgling of the river, which rolled 
 swiftly on, just below their little gate. How delightful to 
 her seemed 
 
 u The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour 
 To meditation due.” 
 
 Calmly she now weighed the conversation of the preceding 
 night, and, engrossed in earnest thought, sat gazing out till 
 the Orient shone resplendent, and an October sun poured 
 his rays gloriously around her. Then she knelt, and prayed 
 as she had never done before. She sought the “ pure foun¬ 
 tain of light,” and implored strength and guidance in her 
 search after truth. Rising, her glance fell on her sleeping 
 cousin, and she was struck with the change which within 
 the last month had taken place in her appearance. Ap- 
 proaching the bed, she lifted the masses of chestnut hair 
 
84 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 that clung to the damp brow. As she looked on the pure, 
 pale face, there came a gush of tenderness into her soul, and 
 bending, she imprinted a long, warm kiss. Mary stirred, 
 and opened her eyes. 
 
 “ Ah, Florry, you are up earlier than usual.” She closed 
 them again, murmuring slowly, “ I feel as though I had no 
 strength remaining; I can scarcely lift my head.” 
 
 “ Sleep, Mary, if you can. I will shut out the light, and 
 call you again after a while.” 
 
 “ No, Florry, I must not give way to such feelings; indeed 
 they are getting quite too common of late ; I can’t think 
 what makes me so weak and feverish.” 
 
 An hour later, as they stood together at the door of their 
 little dining-room, a body of Mexican cavalry dashed furi¬ 
 ously past their gate. The cousins looked full at each other. 
 Then Florence said in a low, calm tone: “You are right, 
 Mary; we will go from this place; I feel now that it is for 
 the best.” She averted her face ; but Mary saw an expres¬ 
 sion of keen agony resting there. “ Florry, let us consult 
 Mrs. Carlton. She will advise us what would be best to do 
 in this emergency.” 
 
 “ Go and see her yourself; I cannot. Whatever you de¬ 
 cide upon I will agree to. Oh ! Mary, how desolate and 
 unprotected we are.” 
 
 “ No, not while there is an Almighty One to watch over 
 us. But, Florry, I am much troubled about Aunt Lizzy. 
 I mentioned our wish to leave here, and she opposed it 
 strenuously, on the grounds that the Padre had promised his 
 protection. Now what are we to do ? ” 
 
 “ Go to Mrs. Carlton’s, Mary, and I will convince aunt 
 that it is best we should remove from here immediately. 
 You need apprehend no difficulty on her part. As you 
 return from Mrs. Carlton’s, meet me in the church-yard.” 
 
 “ Florry, do not go till I come home; or, if you prefer it, 
 let us go there at once.” 
 
 “ No, Mary, I wish to be there alone.” 
 
 “ But I am afraid it is not quite safe for you to venture 
 out so far from home.” 
 
 “ I fear nothing: who would harm a daughter beside her 
 father’s grave ? ” 
 
 Mary sighed heavily, but ^offered no further opposition. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 85 
 
 Her walk to Mrs. Carlton’s was a sad one, for her heart 
 clung to the scenes she had learned to love so well, and the 
 prospect of departure, and the uncertainty of the future, 
 weighed heavily on her heart, and made her step unwontedly 
 slow. She found her friend alone, and much depressed. 
 Mrs. Carlton clasped her tenderly in her arms, while the 
 tears rolled silently down her cheeks. 
 
 “ I hope nothing has happened to distress you ? ” said 
 Mary, anxiously. 
 
 “ You are the very one I wished to see. Mr. Carlton 
 said, this morning, that he was unwilling for me to remain 
 here any longer, as our troops are marching to attack the 
 Alamo. He says he will take us to Washington, and I could 
 not bear the idea of leaving you here.” 
 
 “ I have come to consult you on this subject; for some of 
 my Mexican friends have advised us to leave San Antonio; 
 and not knowing where or how to go, concluded to come 
 and see you. But Washington is far, very far from here. 
 How will we ever reach it in these unsettled times ? ” 
 
 “ Mr. Carlton and Frank have gone to make all neces¬ 
 sary preparation for our immediate departure. We will have 
 two tents, and carry such cooking utensils and provisions as 
 are needful for a tedious journey : one wagon is all we hope 
 to obtain for conveying these. I suppose we shall all ride 
 horseback ; for you know there is not a carriage in the town. 
 Frank does not wish us to leave this place, for he suggested 
 your coming to remain with us till these stormy times were 
 over. But this is not a suitable home for you. Surely your 
 cousin and aunt will consent to accompany us ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, I think so ; for Florry left it entirely with me, and 
 certainly we should go now.” 
 
 “ I am very glad to hear you say so, Mary; not only upon 
 your own account, but also for Frank. He will consider 
 himself bound to accompany you ; for he promised your 
 dying uncle to watch over you both with a brother’s care, 
 and otherwise he could not be induced to leave San Antonio 
 at this crisis. He seems completely rapt in the issue of the 
 contest; and would you believe it, Mary, he is anxious to 
 enlist; but my entreaties have as yet prevented him.” 
 
 “ Dear Mrs. Carlton, there is no obligation resting on 
 him to go with us. He has been very kind and careful, and 
 
86 
 
 SNEZ? A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 though deeply grateful, we could not consent to his leaving 
 against his own inclinations. Oh, no ! we could not allow 
 this. Yet should he remain, what may be the result? Oh 1 
 Mrs. Carlton, this is terrible.’’ 
 
 Mary’s cheek was very pale, and her lips quivered con¬ 
 vulsively, while the small hands, clasped each other tightly. 
 
 “ Mary, for my sake, use your influence with him in favor 
 of going to Washington. I can’t go in peace, and feel that 
 he is here exposed to such imminent danger, for when I am 
 gone, what will restrain him ? Mary, Mary 1 do not deter 
 him, if he feels it incumbent on him to see you to a place of 
 of safety.” 
 
 “ Mrs. Carlton, you can appreciate the peculiar position 
 in which I am placed. Florry and I would shrink from 
 drawing him away, in opposition to his wishes, particularly 
 when there is no danger attendant on our traveling; for 
 with you and Mr. Carlton we would feel no apprehension; 
 and even if we did, we could not consent to such a sacrifice 
 on his part. Yet I sympathize with you, most sincerely, and 
 will willingly do all that in propriety I can to alleviate your 
 sorrow ; but knowing his sentiments, how could I advise, or 
 even acquiesce in his going ? ” 
 
 “ My pure-hearted girl, forgive a request made so thought¬ 
 lessly. I had not considered, as I should have done ; yet 
 you can appreciate the anxious feelings which dictated it.” 
 As she spoke, Mrs. Carlton clasped her friend to her heart, 
 and wept on her shoulder. No tear dimmed Mary’s eye; 
 yet that she suffered, none who looked on her pale brow 
 and writhing lips could doubt. As she raised her head to 
 reply, Dr. Bryant entered, and started visibly on seeing her. 
 Mrs. Carlton endeavored to regain her composure; and, 
 with a slightly faltering voice, asked how he succeeded in 
 procuring horses ? 
 
 “ Better than I had hoped,” was the rejoinder; and he 
 held out his hand to Mary. She gave him hers, now cold 
 as ice. He held it a moment, and pressed it gently, -saying; 
 “ You see my sister is going to run away on the first intima¬ 
 tion of danger. I hope she.has not infected you with her 
 fears; though, to judge from your looks, I should almost 
 predict a stampede in another direction.” 
 
 “ Indeed you are quite right. Florry and I are going 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 s 7 
 
 with her; though we had decided on leaving before we 
 knew she intended doing so.” 
 
 “ Ah! you did not seen to apprehend any immediate 
 danger when we conversed on this subject a few days since. 
 What has changed your views ? ” 
 
 “ I have been warned not to risk the dangers attendant on 
 the approaching conflict by a Mexican friend, whose attach¬ 
 ment I have every reason to believe is sincere; and besides, 
 it needed but little to augment my fears: and Florry and I 
 concluded, if practicable, to remove to a place of greater 
 safety.” 
 
 “ Can you be ready within two days, think you, Miss 
 Mary ? for, if we leave at all, it is advisable that we do so 
 immediately.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes ! I know we can be ready by that time:” 
 
 “ Let me see—how many additional horses shall we need ? 
 Yourself, your cousin, and aunt, and myself.” 
 
 Mary looked eagerly at Mrs. Carlton; but she had averted 
 her head; and for a moment a terrible struggle within kept 
 the gentle girl silent. 
 
 “ Dr. Bryant, I know you do not wish to leave here at this 
 juncture, intensely interested as you are in the event, and I 
 fear you are sacrificing your own wishes for our benefit. Let 
 me beg you to consult your inclinations, and do not feel it in 
 the least incumbent on you to attend us, particularly when we 
 are in the kind care of Mr. Carlton ; and you have already 
 done so much toward contributing to our comfort.” 
 
 “ Thank you for your consideration. Nevertheless, I 
 shall not rest satisfied till I place you in safety on the banks 
 of the Brazos. One of my greatest pleasures has been to 
 render you service, and you would not abridge them, I hope, 
 by refusing my company on your journey ? ” 
 
 Mary’s eyes were fixed earnestly on his face while he 
 spoke, and though there was no change in his kind, gentle 
 tone, there came an undefinable expression over his noble 
 countenance—an expression in which coldness and scrrow 
 predominated. She could not understand him ; yet a shud* 
 der crept though her frame, and a sensation of acute pain 
 stole into her heart. She felt as through a barrier had sud¬ 
 denly risen between them, yet could not analyze the cause. 
 
 “ Your servants will take all possible care of the house 
 
88 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 and furniture during your absence, which, I hope, will be 
 but temporary. They will not be molested ; and I am afraid 
 we could not conveniently carry two additional persons. 
 What think you of this arrangement ? ” 
 
 “ I think with you, that under existing circumstances the 
 servants could not well accompany us ; and though they 
 will incur no danger, I regret the necessity of leaving them, 
 particularly should they object.” 
 
 “ I hope you will find no difficulty in arranging every¬ 
 thing to your entire satisfaction, previous to our departure. 
 You and my sister must consult as to all minor points, and 
 I must look to our preparations. My respects to your 
 cousin. I will see you again to-morrow ; ” and bidding her 
 good morning, he turned away. 
 
 “ Oh, such a weight is lifted from my heart! ” exclaimed 
 Mrs. Carlton. “ I can now exert myself as I am called on 
 to do.” 
 
 “ Florry will be waiting for me, and we have much to do 
 at home; so good-by,” and Mary lifted her pale face for a 
 farewell kiss. 
 
 Mrs. Carlton affectionately embraced her, and bidding 
 her “ make all speed,” they parted. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 “‘There is a soul just delivered from Purgatory ! * 
 be a frog dressed in red flannel.” 
 
 It was found to 
 Kirwan. 
 
 Florence having succeeded, as she imagined, in con¬ 
 vincing her aunt that it was advisable to remove from San 
 Antonio, slowly proceeded to the churchyard, little dream¬ 
 ing that the door had scarce closed behind her ere Aunt 
 Lizzy, with swift steps, directed her way to the house of the 
 Padre. He was writing, but gave his attention, and heard, 
 with ill-disguised chagrin, that Florence distrusted his prom¬ 
 ised protection. 
 
 “ Does she doubt in matters of faith, think you ? he 
 eagerly inquired. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 89 
 
 “ Indeed, Padre, I cannot say. All I know is, that she 
 and Mary sat till midnight, reading and talking, and she has 
 not seemed like herself since.” 
 
 “ Where shall I find Florence ? ” said he, taking his hat. 
 
 “ In the churchyard, I think, beside her father’s grave.” 
 
 “ Say nothing to her, but apparently acquiesce in her 
 plans ; and, above all, do not let her dream that you have 
 told me these things.” 
 
 Ah, Florence ! who may presume to analyze the anguish 
 of your tortured heart as you throw yourself, in such aban¬ 
 donment of grief, on the tomb of your lost parent ? The 
 luxuriant grass, swaying to and fro in the chill October 
 blast, well-nigh concealed the bent and drooping form, as 
 she knelt and laid her head on the cold granite. 
 
 “ My father! oh, my father! ” and tears, which she had 
 not shed before, fell fast, and somewhat eased the desolate, 
 aching heart. Florence had not wept before in many years ; 
 and now that the fountain was unsealed, she strove not to 
 repress the tears which seemed to lift and bear away the 
 heavy weight which had so long crushed her spirits. 
 
 What a blessing it is to be able to weep ; and happy are 
 they who can readily give vent to tears, and thus exhaust 
 their grief ! Such can never realize the intensity of anguish 
 which other natures suffer—natures to whom this great 
 relief is denied, and who must keep the withering, scorching 
 agony pent up within the secret chambers of their desolate, ' 
 aching hearts. Sobs and tears are not for these. No, no; 
 alone and in darkness they must wrestle with their grief, 
 crush it down into their inmost soul, and with a calm exterior 
 go forth to meet the world. But ah! the flitting, wintry 
 smile, the short, constrained laugh, the pale brow marked 
 with lines of mental anguish, will ofttimes, tell of the smolder¬ 
 ing ruin. 
 
 “ My daughter, God has appointed me in place of the 
 parent he has taken hence; turn to me, and our most holy 
 church, and you will find comfort such as naught else can 
 afford.” 
 
 Florence sprung to her feet, and shuddered at the sound 
 of his low, soft voice. The Padre marked the shudder, and 
 the uneasy look which accompainied it: “ Padre, I have 
 confessed, and I have prayed to almost every saint in the 
 
9° 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 Calendar, and I have had your prayers in addition to my 
 own ; yet I find no comfort. No joy has stolen to my heart, 
 as you promised it inevitably would.” 
 
 “ My daughter, if peace has not descended on thy spirit, 
 I fear you have not been devout. Tell me truly if you have 
 not doubted in matters of faith, for our most holy Mother 
 ever grants the prayers of her faithful and loving children ? ” 
 
 “ I have searched the Bible, and I nowhere find authority 
 for invoking saints or the Virgin.” 
 
 “ I can convince you, without doubt, that there is such 
 authority—nay, command.” 
 
 “ ’Tis useless, you may save yourself the trouble ; for my 
 mind is clearly made up that we have not even the sanction 
 of the Fathers.” 
 
 “ Holy Mary, pardon her unbelief, and send down light 
 into her darkened soul! ” 
 
 Florence fixed her eyes full upon him, and replied— 
 “ Christ expressly declares ‘ I am the light, I am the life/ ” 
 
 “ Daughter, your heretic cousin has done you a great 
 injury. May God protect you, and forgive her blasphemy.” 
 
 “ She needs no forgiveness, for she is pure in heart before 
 God, and truthful in all things. 
 
 The swarthy cheek of the Italian flushed—“ Florence, you 
 and your aunt must come and stay at my house till it is 
 safe here ; and, I doubt not when you are at leisure to hear 
 me, you will duly repent your hasty speeches. I shall pray 
 God and our Lady to give you a more trusting, believing 
 heart, and intercede with the blessed saints for your entire 
 conversion.” 
 
 “Not so, Father Mazzolin ; we shall leave this place in 
 a very few days, and I have come to bid adieu to the grave 
 of my father : leave me, for I wish to be alone and in peace.” 
 
 “ Do you doubt my will or ability to protect you, my 
 daughter ? Beneath my roof no danger can assail.” 
 
 “ We have fully decided to go from here, and further 
 reasoning or entreaty would be vain ; accept, however, my 
 thanks for your proffered kindness.” 
 
 “ Girl, you have gone too far ! Hear me while I am plac¬ 
 able, for I tell you now, without my consent, you cannot— 
 shall not leave here.” 
 
 “ You have neither right nor power to detain me.” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 9 1 
 
 “ Have I not ? I swear, if you do not hear and abide by 
 what I say, your father’s soul will remain forever in pur¬ 
 gatory, where it justly belongs.” 
 
 “ How dare you make so miserable a threat ? ” said the 
 calm, clear voice of Mary, who had approached unobserved. 
 
 “ Cursed believer in a cursed creed, what do you here ? 
 Begone, or dread the vengeance I shall surely inflict on so 
 blasphemous and damnable a heretic ! ” 
 
 Winding her arm tightly about Florence’s waist, she re¬ 
 plied—“ ‘ Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay ; 9 
 and though I have never injured you, Padre—even if I had, 
 it ill becomes a consecrated priest to utter such language, or 
 so madly to give vent to passion.” 
 
 “ Silence ! ” thundered the Padre, livid with rage; “ I 
 will compass heaven and earth rather than you shall escape 
 me.” 
 
 “ Come, Florry, this is no place for us now ; even the 
 churchyard is not sacred. Come home.” 
 
 “ Florence, dare you curse your own father ? ” The girl’s 
 lips quivered, but no sound came forth—she seemed 
 stunned. 
 
 “ You would usurp the prerogatives of Jehovah, Father 
 Mazzolin ; but your threat is vain. You cannot bless or 
 damn my uncle at will. How dare you, guilty as you are, 
 hold such impious language ? ” 
 
 For a moment he quailed before the calm, unflinching 
 girl, then seizing Florence’s arm, hoarsely exclaimed : “ One 
 more chance I give you. Florence, I am your brother— 
 your father, my father. On his death-bed he confessed his 
 sins and discovered his son.” 
 
 A deep groan burst from Florence’s lips, and her slender 
 frame quivered like a reed in a wintry blast. The Padre 
 laid his head on the granite slab which covered the remains 
 of Mr. Hamilton, and continued : “ I call God in heaven, 
 and all the saints to witness the truth of what I say, and 
 if I prove it not, may I sink into perdition. When your 
 father was yet young, he made the tour of Europe. Traveling 
 in Italy, he met at Florence a poor but beautiful girl; and 
 she, struck, in turn, by the handsome face of the stranger, 
 left her humble home, and listened to the voice of seduction. 
 He remained five months at Florence, and then suddenly 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 9 2 
 
 left Italy for his native country, without apprising the un« 
 fortunate woman of his intentions. Hatred succeeded to 
 love, and she vowed vengeance. That woman was my 
 mother ; and when ten years had passed, she told me my paren¬ 
 tage, and made me swear on the altar of her patron saint that 
 I would fulfil her vow of vengeance. She died, and I be¬ 
 came a priest of Rome, and in time was sent by my order to 
 Mexico, and thence here to assist my aged and infirm pre¬ 
 decessor. I had in my possession a miniature of my father, 
 and no sooner had I met him here than I recognized the base 
 being who had deserted my mother. I kept my peace ; but 
 ere he died, he confessed that one sin—heavier than every¬ 
 thing beside—weighed on his conscience. In the agony 
 and remorse of that hour my mother was revenged. I told 
 my parentage, and he discovered his child. Feeling that I 
 was your brother, he bade you remain here, claim my protec¬ 
 tion, and follow my advice. But, Florence, hear me—your 
 misery touched my heart; a kindred feeling for you made 
 me desire to serve you; but I swear now that if you hear not 
 my voice, and return to the bosom of our church, your 
 father’s soul shall linger in damnation, and my vengeance 
 shall follow you. You know not my power, and wo to you 
 if you defy me ! ” 
 
 Had the specter-form of the deceased, leaving the shadowy 
 band of the spirit-world, risen on the granite slab before them 
 the two girls could not have been more startled. Tightly 
 they clung one to another, their eyes riveted on the face of 
 the Padre. There was a long pause; then Florence lifted 
 herself proudly up, and cold and haughty was her tone: 
 “ It is not for me to deny your statement. If my father 
 sinned, peace to his memory, and may God forgive him. 
 One so sinful and malignant as yourself cannot be invested 
 with divine prerogatives. I have known your intentions 
 with regard to myself since the hour I knelt in confession. 
 I was destined for a convent, and I tacitly acquiesced in 
 your plans, hoping that so secluded from the world I should 
 be comparatively happy ; but my feelings are changed on 
 many points, and any further interference from you will be 
 received with the scorn it merits. No love for me actuates 
 your movements, else you would have spared me the suffer¬ 
 ing of this .houar-” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 93 
 
 u You defy me, then ? ” 
 
 Florence had turned away, and heeded not his question; 
 but Mary, clasping her hands, looked appealingly in his face ; 
 «Oh, Padre, by the tie which you declare exists between 
 yourself and Florry—for the sake of your lost parent—do 
 not put your threat in execution. Spare an unprotected 
 orphan. You will not harm your sister ! ” 
 
 “ Know you not, girl, that when a Jesuit priest takes 
 the oath of his order, he tears his heart from his breast 
 and lays it at the feet of his superior ? Appeal not to ties 
 of relationship: we repudiate them, and pity is unknown 
 among us.” 
 
 With a shudder Mary joined her cousin, and rapidly and 
 in perfect silence they retraced their steps homeward. 
 When they reached their gate, Mary would have opened it, 
 but her cousin, taking her hand, led the way to their old 
 seat beside the river. 
 
 Florence seated herself as near the water as possible, 
 and then tightly clasping the hand she held, asked in a 
 voice of suppressed emotion; “ Tell me, Mary, is there a 
 purgatory ? ” 
 
 “ No, Florry ; I think there is less foundation for that 
 doctrine than any advanced by your church.” 
 
 “ Mary, you speak truth, and all that you say I can 
 implicitly believe. Tell me what grounds support the 
 theory ? ” 
 
 “ You remember the words of our Saviour. i All sin shall 
 be forgiven, save blasphemy of the Holy Ghost; that shall 
 not be forgiven, either in this world or the next/ Now 
 Papists argue in this way: Then other sins can be forgiven 
 in another world; there is no sin in heaven, in hell no for¬ 
 giveness, consequently, there must exist a middle place, or, 
 in other words, a purgatory. Florry, you smile, yet I assure 
 you I have seen this advanced as unanswerable. In the 
 book of Maccabees is a very remarkable passage authorizing 
 prayers for the dead, and on this passage they build their 
 theory and sanction their practise. Yet you know full well 
 it is one of the Apocryphal books rejected by the Jews, be¬ 
 cause not originally written in their language. It was never 
 quoted by our Saviour, nor even received as inspired by 
 your own church till the Council of Trent, when it was ad- 
 
94 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMh, 
 
 mitted to substantiate the doctrine of purgatory, and sanction 
 prayers for the dead. I admit that on this point St. Augus¬ 
 tine’s practise was in favor of it; though it was only near 
 the close of his long life that he speaks of the soul of his 
 mother. Yet already history informs us that the practise of 
 praying for the dead was gaining ground in the church, along 
 with image worship. St. Cyprian, who lived long before 
 him, and during a purer state of the church, leaves no doubt 
 on our minds as to his sentiments on this subject; his words 
 are these : 4 When ye depart hence, there will be no room 
 for repentance—no method of being reconciled to God. Here 
 eternal life is either lost or won. Here, by the worship of 
 God, and the fruit of faith, provision is made for eternal 
 salvation. And let no man be retarded, either by his sins 
 or years, from coming to obtain it. No repentance is too 
 late while a man remains in this world.’ Our Saviour no¬ 
 where gives any encouragement for such a doctrine. On 
 the contrary, he said to the dying thief: 4 This day shalt 
 thou be with me in Paradise.’ I know of no other argu¬ 
 ment which Papists advance in favor of their darling theory, 
 save the practise of the latter Fathers of their church.” 
 
 44 Mary, I cannot believe this doctrine, without further 
 proof of Divine sanction.” 
 
 44 Indeed, Florry, I know of no other reason in its favor, 
 and have long supposed it a system of extortion in connec¬ 
 tion with indulgences, now used only as a means of gain 
 by the dissolute clergy of the Romish faith. I need scarcely 
 say, that the abuse of this latter doctrine drove Luther to 
 reformation. It is a well-known fact, that in the i6th cen¬ 
 tury, Tetzel, a Dominican monk high in his order, drove 
 through Germany in a wagon, containing two boxes—one 
 holding indulgences, the other the money received for 
 them. You will smile, Florry, when I repeat a translation 
 of the German lines written on the outside of the latter 
 box: 
 
 “ ‘ When in this chest the money rings, 
 
 The soul straight up to heaven springs. 
 
 Yet the boldness and audacity of his general language was 
 quite in accordance : 4 Indulgences,’ said he, 4 are the most 
 precious of God’s gifts. I would not exchange my privi- 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 95 
 
 leges for those of St. Peter in heaven ; for I have saved 
 more souls with my indulgences than he with all his ser¬ 
 mons. There is no sin so great that the indulgence will not 
 remit it. Even repentance is not necessary. Indulgences 
 save the dead; for the very moment the money chinks 
 against the bottom of this chest, the soul escapes from pur¬ 
 gatory, and flies to heaven.’ 
 
 “ Yet this inquisitor was high in favor with Pope Leo X. 
 You will say, Florry, that the abuse of a doctrine should be 
 no test of its soundness; and I admit that had he received 
 the punishment he so richly merited it would not; yet this 
 is only one instance among many. We have conversed on 
 the doctrines of the Romish faith merely as theories, should 
 we not now look at the practise ? We need not go very far. 
 When Aunt Fanny expressed surprise on seeing our Mexican 
 shepherd eat meat last Friday, did he not reply in extenua¬ 
 tion, 4 I have paid the priest and can eat meat ’ ? Now if it 
 was necessary for him to abstain previously, could the small 
 sum paid to the Padre exempt him from the duty ? Again 
 we see the working of the system : was not Herrara scrupu¬ 
 lously exact on the same point ? yet he rose from the table 
 and told* a most positive lie. With regard to indulgences, 
 there is not a Papist who will admit that they are a license 
 to sin. The voice of history declares that 4 a regular scale 
 for absolution was graded,' and the fact is authenticated by 
 a recent traveler, who asserts that in the chancel of Santa 
 Croce, at Rome, is hung a catalogue of the indulgences 
 granted to all who worship in that church. Yet your priests 
 will tell you they are the remission of sins already committed. 
 Did not Herrara say, 4 I have paid the Padre and can eat 
 meat ’ ? Now I ask you if this is not a license to commit 
 what would otherwise be considered a heinous offense by all 
 devout Papists ? ” 
 
 44 Relying implicitly on what the Padre asserted, Mary, I 
 have never investigated these subjects as I should have done, 
 before giving my credence and support; but of the doctrine 
 in question I can henceforth entertain but one opinion—a 
 detestable and infamous method of filling the papal coffers ; 
 for since you have led me to think on this subject, I clearly 
 remember that a large portion of the enormous expense in¬ 
 curred by the building, ornamenting, and repairing of St. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 96 
 
 Peter’s, was defrayed by money obtained through the sale 
 of indulgences. Oh, Mary, how could I have been so de¬ 
 luded—allowed myself to be so deceived ! ” She took from 
 her pocket the rosary and crucifix which had been given to 
 her father, and threw them impatiently into the river gurg¬ 
 ling at her feet. 
 
 “ The perfect harmony with which the entire system 
 works is unparalleled in the civil, religious, or political an¬ 
 nals of the world. A complete espionage is exercised in 
 papal countries, from the Adriatic to the Californian gulf. 
 And the greater portion of this is accomplished by means of 
 the confessional. The Superior at Rome can become, at 
 pleasure, as perfectly conversant with your domestic ar¬ 
 rangements, and the thousand incidents which daily occur, 
 as you or I, who are cognizant of them. To what is all this 
 tending ? Ah, Florry, look at the blood-stained records of 
 the past. The voices of slaughtered thousands, borne to us 
 across the waste of centuries, bid us remember the Duke of 
 Alva, the Albigensian crusade, the massacre of St. Bartholo¬ 
 mew, and the blazes of Smithfield. Ignatius Loyola! happy 
 would it have been for millions lost, and millions yet to be, 
 hadst thou perished at the siege of Pampeluna. Florry, 
 contrast Italy and Germany, Spain and Scotland, and look 
 at Portugal, and South America, and Mexico, and oh, look 
 at this benighted town! A fairer spot by nature the face of 
 earth cannot boast; yet mark the sloth, the penury, the deg¬ 
 radation of its people, the misery that prevails. And why ? 
 Because they languish under the iron rule of the papal see 
 —iron, because it admits of no modification. Entire suprem¬ 
 acy over both body and soul, or total annihilation of their 
 power. May the time speedily come when they shall spurn 
 their oppressors, and trample their yoke in the dust, as their 
 transatlantic brethren will ultimately do. Oh, Florry, does 
 not your heart yearn toward benighted Italy ? Italy, once so 
 beautiful and noble—once the acknowledged mistress of the 
 world, as she sat in royal magnificence enthroned on her 
 seven hills; now a miserable waste, divided between petty 
 sovereigns, and a by-word for guilt and degradation! The 
 glorious image lies a ruin at our feet: for the spirit that 
 gave beauty and strength, and shed a halo of splendor 
 round its immortal name, has fled afar, perhaps forever; 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 9 * 
 
 banished by the perfidious system of Papacy—that sworn 
 foe to liberty, ecclesiastical or political. 
 
 “ How incomprehensible the apathy with which the 
 English regard the promulgation of Puseyism in their 
 church! It is stealing silently but swiftly to the very 
 heart of their ecclesiastical institutions, and total subversion 
 will ultimately ensue. That Americans should contem¬ 
 plate without apprehension the gradual increase of papal 
 power is not so astonishing, for this happy land has never 
 groaned beneath its iron sway. But that the descendants 
 of Latimer and of Ridley, of Hooper and of Cranmer, 
 should tamely view the encroachments of this monster 
 hydra, is strange indeed. Do not imagine, Florry, that I 
 doubt the sincerity of all who belong to the Church of 
 Rome. I know and believe that there are many earnest 
 and conscientious members—of this there cannot be a 
 doubt; yet it is equally true, that the most devoted Papists 
 are to be found among the most ignorant, bigoted, and 
 superstitious of men. The masses of your church are 
 deceived with pretended miracles and wondrous legends, 
 such as the one currently reported respecting the holy 
 house of Loretto, which seems so migratory, and flies 
 hundreds of miles in a night. These marvelous tales are 
 credited by the uneducated; yet no enlightened man or 
 woman of the present age, who has fully investigated this 
 subject, can say with truth that they conscientiously believe 
 the doctrines of the Romish Church to be those taught by 
 our Saviour, or its practises in accordance with the general 
 tenor of the Bible. This may seem a broad assertion, yet 
 none who calmly consider the subject in all its bearings, 
 and consult the page of history, will pronounce it a hasty 
 one.” 
 
 “ Yet remember, Mary, that the sect in question is 
 proverbial for charitable institutions. One vital principle 
 is preserved. Surely this is a redeeming virtue. Catho¬ 
 lics are untiring in schemes of benevolence and philan¬ 
 thropy. ” 
 
 “ You will start, and perhaps condemn me, when I 
 reply, that their boasted charity is but the mask behind 
 which they disseminate the doctrines of the Romish 
 Church. I may appear ve^r upS table in the ex- 
 
 7 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 98 
 
 pression of this opinion; yet hear me, Florry ; facts are 
 incontrovertible. If you will think a moment, you cannot 
 fail to remember Patrick, the porter at our friend Mrs e 
 
 D-’s. Having received a dangerous wound in his foot, 
 
 he was sent to the hospital, where several of the nurses 
 were Sisters of Charity. He remained nearly a month, 
 
 and on his return related to Mrs. D-, in my presence, 
 
 some of the circumstances of his long illness. His words 
 made a lasting impression on my mind: 
 
 “ 4 Indeed, and I am glad enough to come home, ma’am; 
 for never was I treated worse in my life. The first week 
 Sister Agnes, who nursed in my room, was kind and tender 
 as could be, and thought I, if ever angels come to earth, 
 this good woman is one; but I can tell ye I did not think 
 so long: she read some saints’ lives to us, and asked me if 
 I was a Catholic. I said no, I was no Catholic. Then she 
 tried every way to make me one, and told me if I refused I 
 would surely die and go to purgatory. Faith ! the more 
 she talked that way the more I wouldn’t be a Catholic; and 
 then she just let me alone, and not another thing would she 
 do for me. I might call from then till now, and never a 
 step would she come, or nurse me a bit. It is no good care 
 of hers that has brought me back alive and well: I tell 
 you, Sister Agnes won’t do for any but Catholics.’ 
 
 44 Florry, is such charity akin to that taught by the Bible ? 
 Catholics boast of their asylums ; and by means of fairs and 
 suppers, large amounts are annually collected for the sup¬ 
 port of these numerous institutions. I have been told by a 
 directress of a Protestant orphan asylum, that on one oc¬ 
 casion a squalid woman, accompanied by two boys, pre¬ 
 sented herself and entreated that her children might be 
 received into the asylum. The unhappy mother informed 
 the directress that she was a Roman Catholic, and had 
 claimed the protection of her own sect; but, said she, tear¬ 
 fully, 4 Indeed I had no money to pay for their entrance, 
 and they refused to take my children.’ 
 
 44 Such, Florry, is their boasted charity; and I might add, 
 their lives are little in accordance w T ith the spirit inculcated 
 by our Saviour, who said, 4 When ye do your alms, let not 
 your left hand know what your right hand doeth. 5 There are 
 thousands who daily dispense charities of various kinds \ 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 99 
 
 yet they do not term themselves Sisters of Charity, neither 
 promenade the streets in a garb so antiquated and peculiar 
 as to excite attention, or elicit encomiums on their marvel¬ 
 ously holy lives and charitable deeds. Do not suppose, 
 Florry, because I speak thus, that I doubt the sincerity of 
 all who enroll themselves as Sisters. I do believe that 
 there are many pious and conscientious women thus en- 
 engaged ; yet they are but tools of the priests, and by them 
 placed in these institutions for the purpose of making pros¬ 
 elytes.” 
 
 A pause ensued, and Florence paced slowly along the 
 bank. Somewhat abruptly she replied : 
 
 “ Yet you will admit, Mary, that we owe much to the monks, 
 by whose efforts light and knowledge were preserved during 
 the dark ages ? But for them every vestige of literature, 
 every record of the past, would inevitably have been lost.” 
 
 “ Tell me, Florry, what caused the dark ages? Was it 
 not the gradual withdrawal of light and [knowledge—the 
 crushing, withering influence exerted on the minds of men ? 
 And tell me if this influence was not wielded by the priests 
 of Rome—corrupted, fallen Rome ? During the dark pe¬ 
 riod in question, papal power was at its height; the thun¬ 
 ders of the Vatican were echoed from the Adriatic to the 
 Atlantic—from the Mediterranean to the North Sea. An 
 interdict of its profligate Pope clothed cities, and kingdoms, 
 and empires in mourning; the churches were closed, the 
 dead unburied, and no rite, save that of baptism, performed. 
 Ignorance and superstition reigned throughout the world; 
 and it is said, that in the ninth century scarce a person was 
 to be found in Rome itself who knew even the alphabet. 
 Yet monasteries crowned every eminence, and dotted the 
 vales of southern Europe. The power of the priesthood 
 was supreme. Florry, I do admit that what remained of 
 light and learning was hid in the cell of the anchorite; not 
 disseminated, but effectually concealed. They forgot our 
 Saviour’s injunction— 4 Let your light shine before men/ 
 Oh ! Florry, did not the teachers of the dark ages put their 
 light under a bushel ? Dark ages will ever follow the in¬ 
 crease of papal power. It is part of their system to keep 
 the masses in ignorance. How truly it has been said that 
 Rome asked but one thing, and that Luther denied her— 
 
IOO 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 ‘ A fulcrum of ignorance on which to rest that lever by which 
 she can balance the world.’ They dare not allow their 
 people light and knowledge ; and what to others was in¬ 
 deed a dark age, is regarded by the priests of Rome as a 
 golden season. Can you point to a single papal country 
 which is not enveloped in the black cloud of superstition 
 and crime? To Italy, and Spain, and Portugal, the dark 
 ages have not passed away ; neither will they, till liberty of 
 conscience is allowed, and the Bible permitted in the hands 
 of the laity. Under papal rule, those unfortunate nations 
 will never rise from their degradation ; for their masters and 
 teachers ‘ love darkness rather than light, because their deeds 
 are evil.’ It has often been said by those who fail properly 
 to consider this subject, that the Roman Catholic schools 
 and colleges which abound in the United States are far su¬ 
 perior to similar Protestant institutions. Why do not these 
 very superior teachers disseminate knowledge at home? 
 Why do they not first enlighten the Spaniards ere they cross 
 the Atlantic to instruct American pupils ? The ignorance 
 of Neapolitans is proverbial; yet Naples is the peculiarly 
 favored city of Romanism. Tell me why these learned pro¬ 
 fessors do not teach their own people ? Florry, papal in¬ 
 stitutions in America are but branches of the Propaganda. 
 They but come to proselyte. I have heard it repeatedly 
 averred of a certain nunnery, c that no efforts were made to 
 affect the religious views of the pupils.’ Yet I know that 
 such is not the case. They are far too politic openly to 
 attack the religion; yet secretly it is undermined. I will 
 tell you how, Florry, for you look wonderingly at me. Prizes 
 are awarded for diligence, and application ; and these prizes 
 are books, setting forth in winning language the doctrines of 
 their church. I have seen one of these which was given to 
 
 M-K-, and I also read it most carefully. It was 
 
 titled ‘Alethea; or, a Defense of Catholic Doctrines.’ Yet 
 most indignantly they deny any attempts toward proselyting 
 the pupils intrusted to their care.” 
 
 “ Who will deny the truth of your statements, Mary! 
 Yet, if such are the facts, how can the world be so utterly 
 ignorant of, or indifferent to them ? Strange that they can 
 thus regard a subject so fraught with interest to every 
 lover of liberty—-to every patriot.” 
 
JNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 101 
 
 “ Florry, Papists are unacquainted with these things ; for* 
 begirt with darkening, crushing influence, they are effectually 
 secluded from even a wandering ray of light on this subject. 
 The avenue through which all information is conveyed at 
 the present day is barred to them. Books are denied to the 
 Catholic laity. You may ask how this is effected in this en¬ 
 lightened and liberal age. The prelates of Rome, who long 
 ago resorted to ignorance as their bulwark, are ever on the 
 alert. No sooner is a new publication announced, than it is 
 most carefully perused by them; and if calculated to point 
 out the fallacy of their doctrines, or depict their abuse of 
 power, a papal bull is forthwith issued, prohibiting all Catho¬ 
 lics from reading the heretical book. The writings of the 
 prince of novelists, Walter Scott, which are universally read 
 by other sects, are peremptorily refused to all Papists. And 
 why ? Because many of his darts are aimed at their profli¬ 
 gate priesthood. Now if, as the}? tell their people, these are 
 but slanderous attacks on their religion, surely the shafts 
 would fall harmless on the armor of truth. Why then so 
 strenuously oppose their reading such works ? Florry, the 
 trite adage, 1 Truth is the hardest of all to bear/ is applicable 
 to these prelates of papacy; who, knowing their danger, are 
 fully resolved to guard the avenues of light and knowledge. 
 The Pope of imperial Rome, surrounded as he is with lux¬ 
 ury, magnificence, and hosts of scarlet-liveried cardinals, 
 who stand in readiness to convey his mandates to the re¬ 
 motest corners of the earth, has been made to tremble on 
 his throne by the pen of feeble woman. The truthful de¬ 
 lineations of Charlotte Elizabeth startled his Holiness of 
 the Vatican, and the assistant conclave of learned cardinals 
 are trembling lest their laity of the Green Isle should catch a 
 glimpse of light. A bull was quickly fulminated against her 
 heretical productions. Alas I when, when will the Romish 
 Church burst the iron bands which begirt her ? 
 
 “ The world at large—I mean the world as composed of 
 Protestants, latitudinarians, politicians, statesmen, and 
 fashionable dunces, are in a great measure acquainted with 
 these facts; but knowing the rapidly increasing power of 
 papal Rome, and the vast influence already wielded in this 
 happy land by its priesthood, they prefer to float along with 
 the tide, rather than vigorously resist this blasting system of 
 
202 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 ignorance, superstition, and crime which, stealthily ap* 
 proaching from the east and from the west, will unite and 
 crush the liberties of our glorious Republic. As patriots, 
 they are called on to oppose strenuously its every encroach¬ 
 ment—yet they dare not; for should they venture to de¬ 
 claim against its errors, they endanger their popularity and 
 Incur the risk of defeat at an ensuing election. Florry, I 
 was once conversing on this subject with a lady who had 
 recently visited Europe, and inquired of her if she had not 
 marked the evils and abuses which existed in the papal 
 dominions through which she traveled. She whisperingly 
 replied—‘ Certainly, my dear, I could not fail to mark the 
 ignorance and degradation which prevailed, but I never 
 speak of it, because, you know, it makes one very unpopu¬ 
 lar/ Here, Florry, you have the clew to the mystery. 
 Americans quietly contemplate this momentous subject, and 
 silently view the abuses which are creeping into our com¬ 
 munities, because if they expose them, it is at the hazard of 
 becoming unpopular. 7 ’ 
 
 “ Mary, can I ever, ever forget that hour in the church¬ 
 yard ? 57 Florence sadly said, as they rose and proceeded 
 to the house. “ Oh! it seems branded on my brain; yet 
 I must cast this new grief from me, for enough of anguish 
 was mine before. Still I feel that there is a path just ahead, 
 and it seems lighted up. But a slight barrier intervenes, 
 and when that is passed all will be well. Pray for me, Mary, 
 that I may be enabled to lead the life of a Christian, and at 
 last die the death of the righteous. 77 
 
 Clasping tightly the hand which rested in her own, Mary 
 replied: 
 
 “ While life remains, it shall indeed be my prayer that 
 you may be blessed on earth, and rewarded in heaven. Oh, 
 Florry, I thank God that the scales have fallen from your 
 eyes, and that truth shines brightly before you. 57 She 
 stopped suddenly, and pressed her hand to her side, while 
 the pale brow wrinkled with pain. 
 
 “ I have been talking too much, there is a suffocating 
 sensation here. 77 
 
 “ It is only momentary, I hope. 7 ' 
 
 Mary shook her head, and smiled sadly: “ I don’t know, 
 Florry; I have felt strangely of late.” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 
 That evening as the household were busily preparing for 
 their intended departure, Dr. Bryant abruptly entered, and 
 informed them, with a clouded brow, that removal was im¬ 
 possible, as he could not procure a pair of horses for any 
 price. 
 
 “ It is perfectly unaccountable what has possessed the 
 Mexican from whom I purchased as many as I thought 
 necessary. We agreed as to price, and they were to be sent 
 this afternoon; but about two hours ago, he came to me, 
 and declared that he had changed his mind, and would not 
 part with them. I offered double the original amount, but he 
 said money was no inducement. I strove to borrow or hire for 
 any given time, but every proposal was peremptorily declined, 
 and as it is impossible to leave here, I came over to entreat 
 you to remain with my sister, at least for a few days, till we 
 can determine what is advisable to do.” 
 
 His proposal was accepted, and the ensuing day saw them 
 
 inmates of Mrs. Carlton’s. 
 
 » 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 “We 're the sons of sires that baffled 
 Crowned and mitered tyranny : 
 
 They defied the field and scaffold 
 
 For their birth-rights—so will we ! * 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 The issue of the engagement of the 8th October placed 
 Goliad, with valuable munitions, in the hands of the Texans. 
 Many and joyous acclamations rose from their camp, hope 
 beamed on every face, and sanguine expectations were en¬ 
 tertained of a speedy termination of the conflict. Slowly 
 the little band proceeded toward Bexar, receiving daily 
 accessions from headquarters, and girding themselves for a 
 desperate struggle. General Cos, fully appreciating the im¬ 
 portance of the post he held, made active preparation for 
 its defense, never doubting, however, that the strong fortifica¬ 
 tions 01 the Alamo would prove impregnable to assailants so 
 feeble numerically. Under the direction of the cautious 
 
T 04 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 Spaniard, the town already assumed a beleaguered aspect* 
 and in addition to the watchman stationed on the observatory 
 of the fortress, a sentinel paced to and fro on the flat roof 
 of the gray old church, having orders to give instant alarm 
 in case of danger by the ringing of the several bells. Silver- 
 haired men, bending beneath the weight of years, alone 
 passed along the deserted streets, and augured of the future 
 in the now silent Plaza. The stores were closed, and 
 anxiously the few Americans awaited the result; rising at 
 dawn with the belief that ere twilight closed again their 
 suspense would be terminated. On the morning of the 28th 
 the booming of distant artillery was borne on the southern 
 breeze. With throbbing hearts the inhabitants gathered 
 about their doors, and strained their eyes toward the south. 
 A large body of Mexicans, availing themselves of the cover 
 of night, sallied from the Alamo, hoping to cut off a squad 
 of ninety-two men, who, leaving the main body of the Texan 
 army, had advanced for the purpose of reconnoitering, and 
 were posted at the old Mission of Conception, some two 
 miles below the town; and here the contest was waged. 
 The watchman on the church listened intently as each re¬ 
 port reached his ear, and kept his fingers firmly on the bell- 
 rope. An hour passed on, and the sun rode high in heaven; 
 gradually the thundering died away. Quicker grew the 
 breathing, and tighter the cold fingers clasped each other. 
 The last sound ceased: a deathlike silence reigned through¬ 
 out the town, and many a cheek grew colorless as marble. 
 There came a confused sound of shouts—the mingling of 
 many voices—the distant tramp of cavalry ; and then there 
 fell on the aching ears the deep, thrilling tones of the church 
 bells. 
 
 An intervening bend in the river was quickly passed, 
 and a body of Mexican cavalry dashed at full gallop across 
 the plain, nor slackened their pace till secure behind the 
 somber walls of the Alamo. 
 
 At intervals of every few moments, small squads pushed 
 in, then a running band of infantry, and lastly a solitary 
 horseman, reeling in his saddle, dripping with gore. Madly 
 his wounded horse sprung on, when just as the fort was 
 gained, his luckless rider rolled senseless at the 'entrance. 
 One deep groan was echoed from church to fortress. Vic* 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 105 
 
 tory, which had hovered doubtful o’er the bloody field* set¬ 
 tled at last on the banner of the “ Lone Star.” Against 
 what fearful odds is victory ofttimes won ! The intrepid 
 Texans, assaulted by forces which trebled their own, fought 
 as only Texans can. With unerring precision they lifted 
 their rifles, and artillerymen and officers rolled together in 
 the dust. The brave little band conquered, and the flying 
 Mexicans left them sole masters of the field of the “ Horse¬ 
 shoe.” On the hill which rose just beyond the town stood, 
 in bold relief against the eastern sky, a tall square building, 
 to which the sobriquet of “ Powder-House ” was applied. 
 Here, as a means of increased vigilance, was placed a body 
 of horse, for the purpose o. watching the plain which stretched 
 along the river. Fearing every moment to see the victorious 
 Texans at the heels of their retreating infantry, they had 
 orders to dash in, at the first glimpse of the advance-guard 
 of the enemy. But night closed and none appeared, and, 
 dreading the morning light, many lay down to sleep at the 
 close of that eventful day. Several hours elapsed, and then 
 the Texan forces, under General Burleson, wound across the 
 valley, and settled along the verge of the town. The Alania 
 was beleaguered. 
 
 Forced, as it were, to remain a witness of the horrors of 
 the then approaching conflict, the cousins strove to cast 
 from them the gloomy forebodings which crept into their 
 hearts, darkening the present and investing the future with 
 phantoms of terror. Mrs. Carlton and Mary were far more 
 hopeful than the remainder of the little circle, and kept up 
 the semblance of cheerfulness, which ever flies at the ap¬ 
 proach of danger. The girls saw but little of the gentlemen, 
 for Mr. Carlton was ever out in search of tidings from the 
 camp, and Frank, in opposition to his sister’s tearful en¬ 
 treaties, had enlisted immediately after General Burleson’s 
 arrival. His manner, during his brief visits, was considerate 
 and kind ; yet Mary fancied at times that he avoided her, 
 though, marking her declining health, he had prescribed 
 some simple remedy, and never failed to inquire if she were 
 not improving. Still there was a certain something, inde¬ 
 scribable, yet fully felt, which made her shrink from meet¬ 
 ing him, and as week after week passed, her cheek grew 
 paler, and her step more feeble. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 106 
 
 With an anxious heart, Mrs. Carlton watched her failing 
 strength ; but to all inquiries and fears Mary replied that 
 she did not suffer, save from her cough, and for a time dis¬ 
 pelled her apprehensions. 
 
 One evening Mary stood leaning against the window, 
 looking earnestly, wistfully upon the beautiful tints which 
 ever linger in the western sky. She stretched her arms to¬ 
 ward the dim outline, murmuring slowly: 
 
 “ Oh! that my life may fade away as gently as those 
 tints, and that I may at last rest on the bosom of my God.” 
 
 Darkness closed around—the soft hues melted into the 
 deep blue of the zenith as she stood communing with her 
 own heart, and she started when a shawl was wrapped about 
 her, and the window closed. 
 
 “ As ministering physician, I cannot allow such neglect 
 of injunctions. How dare you expose yourself after my ex¬ 
 press direction to keep close ? ” 
 
 “ I have kept very closely all day, and did not know that 
 star-gazing was interdicted.” 
 
 As she spoke, a violent fit of coughing succeeded; he 
 watched her anxiously. 
 
 “ Do you suffer any acute pain ? ” 
 
 “ Occasionally I do ; but nothing troubles me so much as 
 an unpleasant fluttering about my heart, which I often have.” 
 
 “ You must be very careful, or your cough will increase as 
 winter comes on.” 
 
 Mary repressed a sigh which struggled up from her heart, 
 and inquired if there was any news. 
 
 “We cannot learn exactly what is transpiring within the 
 Alamo, but feel assured the crisis is at hand ; some excite¬ 
 ment has prevailed in the garrison all day, and it is confi¬ 
 dently expected in our camp that the assault will soon be 
 made.” 
 
 “ Oh! may God help you in the coming strife, and ad¬ 
 judge victory to the side of justice and liberty.” 
 
 “Apparently the chances are against us, Miss Irving; yet 
 I regard the future without apprehension, for the Texans 
 are fearless, and General Burleson in every respect worthy 
 the confidence reposed in him. Allow gloomy forebodings 
 no room in your heart, but, like myself, anticipate a speedy 
 termination of the war.” 
 
 \ 
 
WEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO , 107 
 
 “Vet; your situation is perilous in the extreme; hourly 
 you incur danger, and each day may be your last. Oh l 
 why will you hazard your life, and cause your sister such 
 bitter anguish ? ” Mary replied, with quivering lips, while 
 the tone faltered, despite her efforts to seem calm. 
 
 « At least, I could not die in a better cause ; and, as the 
 price of independence, I would willingly yield up my life. 
 Yet Ellen’s tears are difficult to bear; I bade her adieu a 
 few moments since, and must not meet her again till all is 
 decided. So good-by, Miss Irving.” 
 
 He held her hand in his, pressing it warmly, then lifted 
 the cold fingers to his lips, and quietly turned away. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 “ It rains—what lady loves a rainy day ? 
 
 She loves a rainy day who sweeps tne hearth, 
 
 And threads the busy needle, or applies 
 The scissors to the torn or threadbare sleeve ; 
 
 And blesses God that she has friends and home." 
 
 Axon. 
 
 “ Mary, where is your cousin ? I have not seen her since 
 breakfast,” inquired Mrs. Carlton, as the two friends sat 
 conversing in the chamber of the latter. 
 
 “ She laid aside her book just now, declaring it was so 
 dark she could scarcely read. This gloomy day has infected 
 her spirits ; she is probably in the dining-room. I will seek 
 her.” And rising, Mary left the apartment. 
 
 For two days the rain had fallen in torrents, and now on 
 the third morning, the heavens were still overcast, and at 
 intervals of every few moments the heavy clouds discharged 
 themselves in copious showers. The despondency induced 
 by the unsettled times was enhanced by the gloomy weather, 
 and many an earnest wish was expressed that sunshine 
 would soon smile again upon the town. 
 
 Weary with pacing up and down the dining-room, Florence 
 had stationed herself at the window, and stood with her 
 cheek pressed against the panes, gazing dreamily out upon 
 
lo8 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 the deluged streets. She was roused from her reverie by 
 Mary’s entrance. 
 
 “ Florry, I have come in quest of you. Pray, how are 
 you amusing yourself here, all alone ? ” 
 
 “ Communing with my own thoughts, as usual. Here, 
 Mary, stand beside me. As you came in I was puzzling 
 myself to discover how those Mexican women across the 
 street are employing themselves. They seem distressed, yet 
 every now and then chatter with most perfect unconcern. 
 There, they are both on their knees, with something like a 
 picture hanging on the fence before them. They dart in 
 and out of the house in a strange, excited manner. Perhaps 
 you can enlighten me ? ” 
 
 Mary looked earnestly in the direction indicated by her 
 cousin, and at length replied: 
 
 “ You will scarcely credit my explanation : yet I assure 
 you I perfectly understand the pantomime. Florry, look 
 more particularly at the picture suspended in the rain. What 
 does it most resemble, think you ? ” 
 
 “ Ah, I see now—it is an image of the Virgin! But I 
 should suppose they considered it sacrilegious to expose it 
 to the inclemencies of the weather.” 
 
 4 
 
 “ Look closely, Florry, there are praying to the Virgin, 
 and imploring a cessation of the rain. I once happened at 
 Senor Gonzale’s during a thunder-storm, and, to my aston¬ 
 ishment, the family immediately hung out all the paintings 
 of saints they possessed. I inquired the meaning, and was 
 told in answer, that the shower would soon pass over, as 
 they had petitioned the images to that effect. Those women 
 have repeated a certain number of aves, and withdrawn into 
 the house, but ere long you will see them return, and go 
 through the same formula.” 
 
 “ It is almost incredible that they should ascribe such 
 miraculous power to these little bits of painted canvas,” re¬ 
 plied Florence, gazing curiously upon the picture which was 
 suspended with the face toward her. 
 
 “ No, not incredible, when you remember the quantity of 
 relics annually exported from Rome, such as ‘ chips of the 
 Cross,’ ‘ bones of the Apostles,’ and ‘ fragments of the 
 Virgin’s apparel,’ which Papists conscientiously believe are 
 endowed with magical powers sufficient to relieve various 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 log 
 
 infirmities. I doubt not that those women confidently ex¬ 
 pect a favorable response to their petition; and if such in¬ 
 tercession could avail, it was certainly never more needed. 
 Absurd as the practise appears to us, a doubt of the efficacy 
 of their prayers never crossed their minds. They are both 
 devout and conscientious.” 
 
 “ But, Mary, such superstitious ignorance is entirely con¬ 
 fined to the degraded and uneducated classes. No really 
 intelligent mind could rely on yonder picture to dispel these 
 clouds, and win a ray of sunshine. I think you are too 
 hasty in supposing that the enlightened portion of the 
 Catholic Church place such implicit confidence in images 
 and relics.” 
 
 “ What do you term the enlightened portion of the church ? 
 Would not its prelates be considered as belonging to that 
 class ? ” 
 
 “ Most certainly they would, Mary : for doubtless many 
 of the greatest minds Europe has produced, were and are 
 still to be found among the Roman Catholic clergy. Yet 
 you would not insinuate that these rely on the efficacy of 
 such mummery as that we have just witnessed ? ” replied 
 Florence, fixing her eyes inquiringly upon her cousin’s face. 
 
 “ Allow me to ask one question ere I reply. Florry, do 
 you believe the days of miracles have passed away, or do you 
 suppose that the laws of nature are still constantly infringed, 
 the harmony of cause and effect destroyed, and wonderful 
 phenomena still vouchsafed to favored Europeans ? ” 
 
 “ Of course I do not advocate the theory that miracles 
 occur at the present day. It is too preposterous to advance 
 in this enlightened age. There are perhaps natural phe¬ 
 nomena, only to be explained by scientific research; yet 
 in the common acceptation of the term miracle, I unhesita¬ 
 tingly declared that I believe none have occurred since the 
 days of Christ and the Apostles.” 
 
 “ Then, Florry, your position is untenable, for Romish 
 prelates of the present day do most unquestionably defend 
 the theory of the annual occurrence of miracles. Bishop 
 
 *-, whose intellectual endowments are the constant theme 
 
 of encomiums, has recently visited Italy. On his return to 
 America, he brought with him a valuable collection of relics, 
 which he distributed among the members of his church. 
 
1 xo 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Florry, I can vouch for the truth of what I now say. He. 
 declared himself extremely fortunate in having happened at 
 Naples during the anniversary of the death of St. Janarius c 
 Said lie, ‘ I repaired to the place of his martyrdom, and took 
 into my own hand the vial containing the blood of the blessed 
 saint, now decomposed. As the hour rolled around I 
 watched the holy dust in breathless anxiety ; at the appointed 
 moment I perceived a change in its appearance, and while I 
 held the vial in my hand the ashes liquefied and became 
 veritable blood ; while the dark spots on a neighboring stone 
 turned of a deep crimson.’ Now the bishop related this 
 miracle far and wide and priests ministering at the altar re= 
 peated his words to their listening flocks. Sanctioned by 
 the example of their prelates, do you wonder that the igno¬ 
 rant masses of the Romish church should implicitly rely upon 
 the intercession of saints, and place unbounded confidence 
 in the miraculous powers imputed to relics ? Again, the 
 Manuals placed in the hands of the laity, are compiled under 
 the special supervision of these ecclesiastical professors, who 
 necessarily indorse all we see there advanced. In the 
 Ursuline Manual I find this assertion: ‘ The Hail Mary 
 was composed in Heaven, dictated by the Holy Ghost, and 
 delivered to the faithful by the Angel Gabriel! 9 Now f 
 Florry, does not this seem blasphemy, bordering on the ab¬ 
 surd ? What conscientious, honest, enlightened Christian 
 would unblushingly defend such a declaration ? ” 
 
 “ But, Mary, admitting as you do, that you believe there 
 exist many truly conscientious members of this sect, why 
 indulge your apprehension at the promulgation of its tenets ? ” 
 replied Florence. 
 
 “ I might answer you, Florry, in the words of Henry IV. y 
 who inquired of a celebrated Protestant divine, ‘ if a man 
 might be saved by the Roman Catholic religion ? ’ 6 Un¬ 
 
 doubtedly, ’ replied the clergyman, 4 if his life and heart be 
 holy.’ ‘ Then,’ said the king, ‘ according to both Catholics 
 and Protestants, I may be saved by the Catholic religion \ 
 but if I embrace your religion, I shall not be saved accord¬ 
 ing to the Catholics.’ Thus Henry most unquestionably 
 adjudged Protestants the more tolerant of the two sects,, 
 Here, Florry, you have the clew to my anti-Romanism. 1 
 fear the extension of papal doctrines, because liberty of 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . ill 
 
 conscience was never yet allowed where sufficient power 
 was vested in the Roman Catholic clergy to compel sub¬ 
 mission. To preserve the balance of power in ecclesiastical 
 affairs is the only aim of Protestants. We but contend for 
 the privilege of placing the Bible in the hands of the masses 
 —of flashing the glorious flambeau of truth into the dark 
 recesses of ignorance and superstition—into the abysmal 
 depths of papal iniquity. Unscrupulously employing every 
 method conducive to the grand end of disseminating Ro¬ 
 mish dogmas, the fagot, the wheel, and all the secret horrors 
 of the Inquisition, were speedily brought to bear upon all 
 who dared to assume the privilege of worshiping God ac¬ 
 cording to the dictates of an unfettered conscience. If the 
 bloody tragedies of the Middle Ages are no longer enacted 
 upon the theater of a more enlightened world, it is because 
 the power so awfully abused has been wrested from the 
 scarlet-robed tenants of the Vatican, The same fierce, in¬ 
 tolerable tryanny is still exercised where their jurisdiction 
 is unquestioned. From the administration of the pontifical 
 states of Italy to the regulation of convent discipline, we 
 trace the workings of the same iron rule. No barriers are 
 too mighty to be overborne, no distinctions too delicate to 
 to be thrust rudely aside. Even the sweet sacredness of 
 the home circle is not exempt from the crushing, withering 
 influence. Ah! how many fair young members of the 
 household band have been decoyed from the hearthstone 
 and immured in gloomy cells. Ah 1 how many a widowed 
 parent has mourned over the wreck of all that was beau¬ 
 tiful in a cherished daughter, snatched by the hand of 
 bigotry from her warm embrace, and forever incarcerated 
 in monastic gloom. Oh! tell me, Florry, if compulsory 
 service is acceptable to all-seeing God ? If the warm 
 young heart, beating behind many a convent grate, yearns 
 to burst asunder the iron bands which enthrall her, and, 
 mingling again upon the stage of life to perform the duties 
 for which she was created, oh! where in holy writ is sanc¬ 
 tion found for the tyrannical decree which binds her there 
 forever—a living sacrifice ? ” 
 
 \ 
 
 
113 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ' " *Tis the light that tells the dawning 
 Of the bright millennial day, 
 Heralding its blessed morning, 
 With its peace-restoring ray. 
 
 ** Man no more shall seek dominion 
 Through a sea of human gore ; 
 
 War shall spread its gloomy pinion 
 O’er the peaceful earth no more.’* 
 
 Burleigh. 
 
 It was a dark, tempestuous night in December, and the 
 keen piercing blasts whistled around the corners and swept 
 moaningly across the Plaza. Silence reigned over the 
 town. No sound of life was heard—the shout of laughter, 
 the shriek of pain, or wail of grief was stilled. The 
 voices of many who had ofttimes hurried along the now 
 silent and deserted streets were hushed in death. The 
 eventful day had dawned and set, the records of its deeds 
 borne on to God by the many that had fallen. Oh ! when 
 shall the millennium come ? When shall peace and good¬ 
 will reign throughout the world ? When shall hatred, re¬ 
 venge, and malice die ? When shall the fierce, bitter strife 
 of man with fellow-man be ended ? And oh! when shall 
 desolating war forever cease, and the bloody records of the 
 past be viewed as monster distortions of a maddened brain ? 
 These things shall be when the polity of the world is changed. 
 When statesmen cease their political, and prelates their 
 ecclesiastical intrigues; when monarch, and noble, and 
 peasant, alike cast selfishness and dissimulation far from 
 them ; when the Bible is the text-book of the world, and the 
 golden rule observed from pole to pole. 
 
 The nth of December is marked with a white stone in 
 the calendar of the Texans. During the fortnight which 
 elapsed from the engagement of Conception, the Alamo 
 had been closely invested by General Burleson, and brief 
 though bloody struggles almost daily occurred. The be- 
 seigers numbered only eight hundred, while the fortress 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 113 
 
 was garrisoned by twenty-five hundred Mexican troops. 
 Yet well-directed valor has ever proved more than a match 
 for numerical superiority. On the morning of the nth a 
 desperate assault was made, a violent struggle ensued, and 
 ere long victory declared for the “ Lone Star.” With un¬ 
 utterable chagrin General Cos was forced to dispatch a 
 messenger bearing the white banner of submission to the 
 Texan commander, and night saw the Alamo again in Texan 
 hands, and General Cos and his disheartened band prison¬ 
 ers of war. 
 
 Dr. Bryant had received, during the engagement, a 
 wound in the arm, which he caused to be dressed, and, 
 placing the injured member in a sling, strove to soothe the 
 . dying and relieve the wounded. Early he dispatched tid¬ 
 ings of his safety to his anxious sister, and now devoted 
 himself to the suffering soldiery. Midnight found him be¬ 
 side the couch of pain, and even as he bent to administer 
 a sedative, a hand was lightly laid on his shoulder. Look¬ 
 ing up, Frank perceived the muffled form of a female, though 
 unable to determine who stood beside him, for the face was 
 entirely concealed by the mantilla. 
 
 “ Can I do anything for you, Senora ? ” 
 
 “ Dr. Bryant, will you leave your people here to see a 
 dying Mexican—one who fell fighting against you ? ” 
 
 “ Most assuredly, if I can render relief; but, Inez, you 
 should not have ventured here on such an errand; could no 
 messenger be found ? It was imprudent in you to come at 
 this hour.” 
 
 “No matter; I felt no fear of your people, and mine 
 would not molest me. But I have little time to wait. Man¬ 
 uel is sorely wounded : we bore him from the Alamo, and he 
 lies at my father’s. Can you do nothing for him ? ” 
 
 “ I hope it is not too late to render assistance ; we will 
 go immediately.” And drawing his cloak over the wounded 
 arm, he followed her to Don Garcia’s. Neither spoke till 
 they reached the threshold ; then Frank said: 
 
 “ Inez, does Manuel know you came for me ? ” 
 
 “Yes; he objected at first, but as the pain grew more 
 acute, he begged us to do something for him. I told him 
 there was none to help save you. He frowned a little, but 
 nodded his head, and then I lost no time.” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO 
 
 114 
 
 They entered the apartment of the sufferer, and Inez, 
 started at the change which had taken place during her 
 temporary absence. Manuel feebly turned his head as the 
 door opened, and his eyes brightened as they rested on 
 Inez. He motioned her to sit beside him, and she com* 
 plied, lifting his head and carefully leaning it upon her 
 bosom. Dr. Bryant examined the wound, felt the pulse, 
 and stooping over him, asked: 
 
 “ Nevarro, do you suffer much ? ” 
 
 Manuel laid his hand on the bleeding side, and feebly in¬ 
 clined his head. 
 
 “ Inez, I can only use one hand, will you assist me in 
 binding this wound ? ” 
 
 She attempted to rise, but Nevarro clutched her hand and 
 gasped—“ Too late—too late I ” 
 
 Resolved to do something, if possible, for his relief, 
 Frank beckoned to the Don, who stood near, and with some 
 difficulty they succeeded in passing a bandage round the 
 mouth of the wound. The groans of the dying man caused 
 even the cheek of the fearless Inez to blanch. She who 
 scorned danger, and knew not fear, could not witness with¬ 
 out a pang the sufferings of another. She moaned in very 
 sympathy, and stroked gently back the straight raven hair, 
 now clotted with blood. The exertion necessarily made 
 proved fatal; the breathing grew short and painful ,the 
 pulse slow and feeble. Appealing was the look which the 
 wounded one bent on Inez : he strove to utter his wishes, 
 but, alas, it was indeed too late. The blood gushed anew 
 from his side, crimsoning bandage and couch, and dyeing 
 Inez’s dress. Dr. Bryant took one of the cold hands and 
 pressed it kindly. Manuel opened his eyes, and looked 
 gratefully on one who had at least endeavored to relieve 
 him. Convulsively the fingers closed over his physician’s 
 hand; again he turned his face to Inez, and with a groan 
 expired. 
 
 Frank took the lifeless form from her arms, and laying it 
 gently back upon the pillow, closed the eyes forever, and 
 covered the face. 
 
 No words, save “Holy Mary! ” escaped the Don’s lips, 
 as he quitted the room of death. 
 
 Inez’s lips quivered, and the convulsive twitching of hef 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO , 
 
 IX S 
 
 features plainly indicated her grief at this mournful parting 
 with the playmate of her youth—with her affianced husband. 
 Yet the large dark eyes were undimmed : and her tone calm, 
 as though the “ King of Terrors ” were not there in all his 
 gloom. 
 
 “ Inez, I sympathize with you in this affliction, and sin¬ 
 cerely regret that the fatal wound was inflicted by one of 
 my nation. Yet the past is irretrievable, though painful, 
 and many are, like you, bereft of friends and relatives. 
 Inez, in your hours of gloom and sadness can you not think 
 of your reunion with Manuel, where death and parting are 
 unknown 1 ” 
 
 She had averted her head, and a look of unutterable bit¬ 
 terness rested on the pale, stern face. 
 
 “ I thank you for coming, though you could not give 
 Manuel relief. It was good and kind in you to try, and 
 none but Frank Bryant would have done it: again I thank 
 you. I shall not forget this night, and you, Senor, shall be 
 requited. I trust you are not suffering with your arm; why 
 is it bound up ? ” And she laid her hand softly on it. 
 
 “ I received a slight though rather painful wound during 
 the engagement, and placed it in a sling for convenience 
 and relief; but, Inez, it is well-nigh day, see how the stars 
 are waning. You need rest, so good night, or rather morn¬ 
 ing; I will see you again to-morrow. ” And Frank sought 
 his sister, knowing full well her anxiety, and wishing speed¬ 
 ily to allay it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 “ Where is the place of meeting ? 
 
 At what hour rises the moon ? 
 
 I repair to what ? to hold a council in the dark 
 With common ruffians leagued to ruin states! ” 
 
 Byron. 
 
 The fierce storm of war had swept over the town, and 
 quiet seemed succeeding. No sound of strife disturbed the 
 stillness which settled around. Many had fallen, and the 
 grass began to bud on the grave of Manuel; no tear moist¬ 
 ened the sod beneath which he rested. Inez, often stood 
 
116 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 beside the newly-raised mound with folded arms, and a 
 desolate, weary look on her beautiful features, which too 
 plainly indicated a longing to sleep near him. Yet she 
 never wept; for her love for Nevarro had been that of a 
 cousin, perhaps not so fervent. Still, now that his steps no 
 longer echoed at their door, and his deep voice sounded 
 not again on her ear, a lonely feeling stole into her heart, 
 and often she crept from her dreary home and sought the 
 churchyard. 
 
 Christmas had come and gone; a joyless season to many 
 saddened hearts accustomed to hail it with delight. The 
 cousins had returned to their home, and were busily ar¬ 
 ranging their yard, and making some alterations for the 
 New Year. Florence had begun of late to grow cheerful 
 again, and Mary watched, with'silent joy, the delicate tinge 
 come back to her marble cheek. She seemed very calm, 
 and almost hopeful; and the spirit of peace descended and 
 rested on their hearth. Only one cause of sorrow remained 
 —Mary’s declining health : yet she faded so gently, and al¬ 
 most painlessly, that their fears were ofttimes lulled. 
 
 Dr. Bryant was still engaged in nursing the wounded, and 
 only came occasionally, regretting often that it was not in 
 his power to see them more frequently. A change had 
 come over him of late; the buoyancy of his spirits seemed 
 broken, and his gay tone of raillery was hushed; the bright, 
 happy look of former days was gone, and a tinge of sadness 
 was sometimes perceptible on his handsome face. Mrs. 
 Carlton had spoken on her last visit of Frank’s departure. 
 She said she hoped he would return soon, as his business 
 required attention at home. He would not leave, however, 
 as long as his services were in requisition. 
 
 One Sabbath morning Inez attended mass—something 
 unusual for her of late, for since Nevarro’s death she had 
 secluded herself as much as possible. She knelt in her ac¬ 
 customed place, with covered head, seemingly rapt in devo¬ 
 tion, but the eyes rested with an abstracted expression on 
 the wall beside her: her thoughts were evidently wandering 
 from her rosary, and now and then the black brows met as 
 her forehead wrinkled; still the fingers slid with mechanical 
 precision up and down the string of beads. The services 
 were brief and the few who had assembled quietly departed. 
 
sNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 117 
 
 As Inez rose to go, the Padre, who was hastening down the 
 aisle, was stopped by a Mexican in the garb of a trader. 
 They stood quite near, and the hoarse whisper of the latter 
 fell on her listening ear. 
 
 “ Meet me at the far end of the Alameda, when the moon 
 rises to-night.” 
 
 “ I will be there before you : is there any good news ? ” 
 
 A finger was laid on the lip, and a significant nod and 
 wink were not lost upon the maiden, who, bowing low be¬ 
 fore the Padre, walked slowly away. The day wore on, 
 much as Sabbaths ordinarily do, yet to her it seemed as 
 though darkness would never fall again, and many times she 
 looked out on the shadows cast by the neighboring houses 
 athwart the street. Twilight closed at last, and having placed 
 her father’s evening meal before him, she cautiously gazed 
 down the narrow alley, and perceiving no one stirring, sallied 
 forth. The stars gave a faint light, and she hurried on to¬ 
 ward the bridge: swift was her step, yet noiseless, and she 
 glided on like a being from another world, so stealthy were 
 her movements. The bridge was gained at length and al¬ 
 most passed, when she descried in the surrounding gloom a 
 dark figure approaching from the opposite direction. 
 Closer she drew the mantle about her form, and slackened 
 her rapid pace. They met, and the stranger paused and 
 bent eagerly forward: 
 
 “ Who goes there ? ” 
 
 The voice was well known. Inez’s heart gave a quick 
 bound, and she answered : 
 
 “ Inez de Garcia! ” 
 
 “ Why, where are you roaming to this dark night, Inez ? 
 Are you not afraid to venture out alone and so far from 
 home ? ” 
 
 “ No, Doctor, I have no fears; I was never a coward you 
 know; and besides, who would harm me, an unoffending 
 woman ? Surely your people will not molest me ? ” 
 
 “ No, certainly not. But, Inez, I hope you are not bend¬ 
 ing your steps toward the Alamo ? ” 
 
 “ I am a friend to the Americans, though they have taken 
 the last of my family there was to give. Yet I will be true 
 to Mary and to you. Fear nothing for me, and let me pass 
 on my errand.” 
 
Il8 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 He stood aside. (i Bueno noche, Senorita.” 
 
 “ Bueno noche ; 55 and she glided on. “ I fear I have lost 
 time; ” and hastily glancing toward the east, she saw a faint 
 light stealing up from the horizon. Redoubling her speed 
 she pushed on. but, despite her efforts, the moon rose with 
 uncommon brilliance as she approached the place of ren¬ 
 dezvous, and soon every object was bathed in a flood of 
 light. 
 
 The Alameda, which she had just entered, was a long 
 double row of majestic cotton-woods, which, stretching out 
 in the direction of the Powder-House, was the favorite 
 promenade with the inhabitants of the town. Previous to 
 the breaking out of the war numbers were to be seen here 
 every afternoon, some walking, others playing games, an¬ 
 other group dancing, and the graver portion of the company 
 resting on the rude seats supplied for the purpose. But 
 their favorite resort was blood-stained, for the Alameda was 
 the battle-field in the late desperate conflict, and the smooth 
 surface was torn and trampled by the stamp of prancing 
 cavalry. Dark spots were still visible, that were yet damp 
 with gore. Just to the west rose the grim walls of the fort, 
 distinctly seen through the opening between the trees. Be¬ 
 yond where the avenue ceased, stood a low, irregular build¬ 
 ing of stone, thatched with tule. 
 
 Inez stood at the threshold and listened intently. The 
 place bore a desolate air, and neither sound nor light be¬ 
 tokened the presence of a human being. It had long been 
 uninhabited, and some declared it was haunted, so that the 
 Padre had some time before sprinkled holy water profusely 
 about, in order to drive away the evil one. 
 
 Cautiously Inez tried the fastening; it swerved not 
 beneath her firm, strong grasp. She shook it slightly: a 
 hollow echo answered back. Entrance was impossible; 
 and even as she lingered irresolute, the sound of approach¬ 
 ing steps was borne to her listening ears by the night wind. 
 What should she do ? Without a moment’s hesitation she 
 glided swiftly to a cluster of chapperal, and crouched low 
 among its thorny branches. Inez had scarcely secreted her¬ 
 self, when the figure of a man, directing his steps to the 
 house she had just left, warned her to keep quiet. He stood 
 still a moment, then knocked. Drearily the knock resounded 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 119 
 
 through the empty building. Again was the signal for ad¬ 
 mission given, but no response greeted the anxious tym* 
 panums. 
 
 “ Why in the name of twenty devils don’t you open the 
 door ? ” and he shook it violently : still no answer. 
 
 “ I swear I’ll batter it down, and stretch you on it to boot, 
 if you don’t let me in. Why do you keep me waiting ? I 
 am too late already.” 
 
 “Nay, nay; restrain your impatience,” said a voice be« 
 hind him. 
 
 “ By the saints, you are come in good time, Padre. 1 
 had well-nigh made a soldier’s entrance.” 
 
 “No need of violence, Senor. Why could not you wait 
 in Christian patience ? ” 
 
 “ Look here, my good friend. I came not all the way 
 from Mexico to listen to a lecture; and you will do well to 
 save your canting for a better time and a worse man. So* 
 Mazzolin, just open the door of this cursed den.” 
 
 Roused by the bold language of the stranger, the Padre, 
 though anxious to learn his errand, was still true to his 
 policy, and could in no measure compromise the dignity of 
 his person. 
 
 “ There is no obligation resting on me to do so against 
 my will, and no man shall bully or threaten me, a priest of 
 our holy church.” He had partially opened the door, but 
 closed it again. 
 
 Enraged beyond degree, the soldier grasped what little 
 collar was afforded by the habit he wore. 
 
 “You infernal, canting hypocrite! I swear by Cortes 
 I’ll kick you to a jelly—I’ll bastinade you till you won’t 
 know the Virgin from the Devil, if you don’t instantly let 
 me in, and keep your lying tongue in your Jesuit heado 
 Think you to gull me with your holy talk ? I know you all 2 
 you are a blessed, holy brotherhood, truly. Have I not 
 seen your letters to Mexico, you canting scoundrel ? ” He 
 shook the Padre violently as he delivered this benediction. 
 
 Now Father Mazzolin, like many of his sex, was fond of 
 supporting his dignity, and reverence for his sacred person 
 was especially inculcated by his teachings. Yet when firmly 
 met his threats melted away, and, to all appearances, his 
 choler too. for he knew full well when to succumb and 
 
120 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 when to oppose belligerent demonstrations. The expression 
 of rage that darkened the face of the soldier, left no doubt 
 that he would execute his threat if further opposed. And 
 Eather Mazzolin, fully satisfied that the organ of reverence 
 was altogether omitted in his cranium, thought it best to 
 comply. 
 
 “ Ha 1 you can understand Irish logic as well as the next 
 brave one.” And he entered, followed by the Padre, who 
 ground his teeth with mortification. 
 
 An hour later they stood again on the threshold in earnest 
 converse, not perceiving the dark form which fled, on the 
 reopening of the door, to the old hiding-place. They turned 
 to go in different directions 2 the stranger stopped, and call¬ 
 ing to the Padre, desired him to keep well the secret, and 
 in no way divulge a breath of their conference. 
 
 “ It could not be in safer hands,” was answered back, 
 and they parted. 
 
 A low, bitter laugh escaped Inez’s lips as, waiting till it 
 was safe to venture forth, she rose from the chapperal and 
 hastened homeward. 
 
 “ Padre, cunning though you are, we are well mated; 
 there are few like unto you and me.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 * I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
 
 And would preserve thee! ” 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Two days later the cousins sat in their front room, 
 Florence intently reading, Mary watching beside the couch 
 of pain, bathing her aunt’s brow, and chafing the hands. 
 Aunt Lizzy was suffering from violent nervous headache: 
 all day she had tossed restlessly about, and now, soothed 
 by the gentle touches on her brow, had fallen asleep. Her 
 fingers had tightly clasped Mary’s small, thin hands, but 
 gradually relaxing their hold, sunk beside her. Softly smooth¬ 
 ing back the disordered hair, the young nurse failed to per* 
 
121 
 
 INEZ * A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 s 
 
 ceive the entrance of Dr. Bryant, and only looked up when 
 a beautiful bouquet of flowers was laid upon her lap. The 
 feverish glow deepened on her cheek as she warmly thanked 
 
 him. 
 
 “ I am glad you like them, Miss Irving.” 
 
 “ How could I do otherwise ? ” 
 
 “ My bunch is equally beautiful,” cried Florence, holding 
 it up for inspection. “ Pray, Doctor, how came you so 
 thoroughly acquainted with our different tastes ? You have 
 selected admirably.” 
 
 “ I am gratified at succeeding so happily in my arrange¬ 
 ment of them. But I hope your aunt is not seriously indis¬ 
 posed ? ” 
 
 " No, merely a bad nervous attack, to which she is sub¬ 
 ject.” „ - 
 
 “ Miss Mary, as you are free from apprehension on her 
 account, can you take a short ride this evening ? I have a 
 gentle horse at the gate, and if you will trust yourself with 
 me, I think a good canter will benefit you exceedingly: will 
 you go ? ” 
 
 Mary sought Florence’s eye; it brightened with pleasure. 
 
 “ Certainly, Mary ; why do you hesitate ? I am very glad 
 Dr. Bryant suggested it; I will take good care of aunt, and 
 the ride will doubtless benefit you.” 
 
 “ You are very kind, Doctor ; I will only detain you while 
 I change my dress.” And she withdrew. 
 
 “ Don’t you think she looks much better to-day ? ” asked 
 Florence, anxiously, as her cousin left the room. 
 
 “ She has certainly more color, but I am afraid it is only 
 a feverish glow. Let me entreat you, Miss Hamilton, to 
 watch over her with the greatest care : the slightest exposure 
 might cause a return of that terrible cough, and in her feeble 
 state I fear for the consequences.” 
 
 “ She has grown very, very thin, within the last month; 
 but then, when warm weather comes again, I doubt not she 
 will grow rosy and strong once more.” They both sighed 
 heavily, as though against conviction each had striven to 
 cheer the other. 
 
 Mary re-entered the room equipped for her ride, and now, 
 for the first time, Florence thought her cousin beautiful. 
 Beneath her straw hat floated back from her fair face a 
 
122 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 luxuriant mass of brown curls ; a bright blush mantled the 
 delicate cheek, and the gentle blue eyes seemed unusually 
 large and brilliant. A smile dimpled round her lip as she 
 met the fond glance bent upon her. Florence tenderly 
 clasped her hand a moment, then kissed her warmly, and 
 bade Dr. Bryant take all care of her. He promised to do 
 so, and soon they had passed beyond her sight. They rode 
 slowly, lest Mary should be too much fatigued; and often 
 the eyes of her companion rested on the frail but lovely 
 being by his side. 
 
 “ Which way shall we ride ? ” 
 
 “ If you have no preference, suppose we go to San Pedro ? ” 
 
 “ You could not have selected more in accordance with my 
 Own wishes.” 
 
 A long silence ensued, broken only by the clatter of their 
 horses’ hoofs along the gravel path. 
 
 “ The prospect of leaving forever these beautiful environs, 
 which I have so often admired, fills me with inexpressible 
 regret. My heart clings to San Antonio, though my resi¬ 
 dence here has been very brief; ” said Dr. Bryant sadly. 
 
 “ Do you go to return no more ? ” asked Mary, with 
 averted head. 
 
 “Yes, most probably I shall never see this place again; 
 for I wish to visit Europe so soon as my business affairs are 
 arranged at home, and on my return, shall devote myself 
 to my profession.” He fixed his eyes earnestly on her face 
 as he spoke. 
 
 Slowly the head drooped, till the hat concealed her fea¬ 
 tures. 
 
 “ We shall miss you very much when you are gone. Florry 
 and I feel deeply grateful for your continued kindness, and 
 never—no, never shall we forget your care of my uncle.” 
 
 “ Take care—take care ; you are dropping your reins.” 
 
 He gathered them up and replaced them in her hand. 
 
 “ Thank you ; I had quite forgotten them.” 
 
 “ Do you not think it would be best for you and Florence 
 to return to your friends in Louisiana ? This is an unpleas¬ 
 ant home for you.” 
 
 “ It was my uncle’s wish that we should remain here, and 
 I know Florry would not consent to leave, unless some 
 danger threatened. We have learned to love San Antonio 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 12$ 
 
 more dearly than any other place, except our old home ; * 
 replied Mary, earnestly. 
 
 “ By the bye, I had almost forgotten to mention that I have 
 had a letter from an old friend, who inquired very partic¬ 
 ularly after you—Dudley Stewart; you knew him, I think, 
 in New Orleans. His letter is dated six months ago : but I 
 am happy to receive it at all during these unsettled times.” 
 
 “ We heard of his marriage,” said Mary, in a low tone, as 
 the image of Florence rose before her. 
 
 “ His marriage I Oh, no! you must be' mistaken. He 
 would most certainly have mentioned it, for we are old and 
 intimate friends.” 
 
 “ It was reported that he had married his cousin.” 
 
 “ Ah! is that all ? I am not much surprised that you 
 should have heard that, for before I left home it was quite 
 current. His widowed mother was very anxious to make 
 the match ; but Stewart assured me he would never comply 
 with her wishes, as he had fully resolved never to wed a 
 woman he did not tenderly love; and though quite pretty, 
 Ellen is not sufficiently intellectual to attract such a man.” 
 
 “ Are you quite sure of this, Dr. Bryant ? ” said Mary, in 
 a quick, eager tone. 
 
 “ Certainly; I had it from his own lips.” 
 
 “ Oh 1 I ”—She stopped short, and her cheek crimsoned, 
 as she met the piercing glance of his dark eye bent upon 
 her face. Her small hands trembled so that the reins quiv¬ 
 ered, and she closed her eyes for a moment, while the glow 
 fled from her cheeks, leaving them pale as marble. 
 
 He caught her hand, and steadied her in her saddle. 
 
 “ Forgive my inattention, Miss Irving, you are not strong 
 enough to extend your ride. Your face is very pale, and 
 you look fatigued.” 
 
 “ Yes, let us go home—home.” Her voice was low and 
 faltering, and she with difficulty restrained the tears which 
 sprung to her eyes. 
 
 They turned their horses’ heads, and neither attempted to 
 remove the restraint which both experienced. They entered 
 the town, and then seeing her hand glide quickly to her side, 
 he gently said: 
 
 “ I am afraid we are riding too fast for you.” 
 
 Her v w writhed for a moment with acute pain ; but with 
 
124 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 a faint smile, which touched him with its sadness, she re* 
 plied: 
 
 “ I am better now—the pain has almost left me. I am 
 very sorry to trouble you so much, Dr. Bryant/’ 
 
 “ Trouble! ” he murmured, as if communing with his own 
 heart. “ I see you do not know me, nor ever will; for none 
 have truly read my soul or sympathized.” A look of bitter* 
 ness passed over his face, and a sterner expression rested 
 there than Mary had ever marked before. She knew not 
 what to reply, for she could not comprehend the change, and 
 even as she pondered, he pointed to the western sky, and, 
 much in his usual tone, asked: 
 
 “ Don’t you think the sunsets here exceed any you ever 
 beheld elsewhere ? ” 
 
 “ In brilliancy they certainly do. Yet I love still better 
 the soft tints which often linger till the stars come out. I 
 think they blend and harmonize more beautifully with the 
 deep blue of the zenith than any I have seen before, and I 
 have watched sunsets from my childhood.” 
 
 “You are right; I have noticed in more northern lati¬ 
 tudes a very perceptible difference in the appearance of the 
 firmament. The moon, for instance, on cold, clear nights, 
 presents a silvery, glittering disk, but the soft mellow light 
 of a southern clime is wanting.” 
 
 While he spoke, the figure of a woman emerged from a 
 house near by, and, softly approaching Mary’s horse, laid 
 her finger on her lips, and, pressing a piece of paper into her 
 hand, returned as silently as she came. Dr. Bryant turned 
 his head toward Mary as he finished speaking, and, catching 
 a glimpse of the retreating form, looked inquiringly at her. 
 
 “ I believe it was Inez, though the face was entirely con* 
 cealed. She did not speak, but gave me this paper,” and 
 Mary unrolled the note: 
 
 % 
 
 “ Marinita, 
 
 “ Santa Anna has crossed the Rio Grande with eight 
 thousand men. I warn you of your danger. You can get 
 horses now, for the Padre cannot control your people. 
 There are brave men in the Alamo, tell them of their dam 
 ger. Again I say, fly quickly from San Antonio. 
 
 “ Inez.” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 125 
 
 With a groan, Mary handed him the paper. In silence 
 he perused and returned it to her. 
 
 “ Tell me, was it Inez who warned you before ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, she told me we incurred unknown dangers by re¬ 
 maining here.” He mused for several moments. 
 
 “ Ah ! I can understand it all now. Several nights ago, 
 returning from the Alamo, I met her on the bridge alone; 
 she seemed excited, I thought, and impatient at meeting 
 me, for I questioned her rambling so late.” 
 
 “ Inez is a warm friend, and what she advises I feel al¬ 
 most bound to do, for she is not timid, and only real danger 
 rouses her apprehension.” 
 
 “ Eight thousand men ! and not two hundred to man the 
 Alamo. Inez is right; this is not a proper place for you. 
 We will go, as we once decided, to Washington ; and when 
 you are in safety, I will return and lend my efforts to the 
 feeble garrison.” 
 
 They reached the gate, and he gently lifted the frail form 
 from the saddle ; and, drawing her arm through his, led her 
 to the house. As they entered, he bent his head and said, 
 in a low tone : 
 
 “ Tell me candidly, are you able to undergo the fatigue 
 incident to this journey ? I fear you are not.” 
 
 “ Yes, I shall perhaps grow stronger; at any rate, if 
 you do not change your mind, let no fears for me influence 
 you.” 
 
 When leaving, he said it was probable that all would be 
 in readiness for their departure within a couple of days, as 
 he wished to see them secure, and then return. 
 
 “ Mrs. Carlton will accompany us when she learns this 
 terrible news ? ” said Mary, inquiringly. 
 
 “ Oh yes; I cannot consent for her to remain, and be¬ 
 sides, Mr. Carlton has been anxious for some time regarding 
 his family.” 
 
 Florence, having read the note, fully approved their 
 promptly removing, and all necessary preparations were 
 made for immediate departure. 
 
 Mary longed inexpressibly to impart to her cousin what 
 she had learned respecting Mr. Stewart, but shrank instinc¬ 
 tively from reviving hopes which might never be realized—- 
 hopes which Florence had long since crushed and cast out 
 
126 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 of her heart as dead. With an earnest prayer that her cou¬ 
 sin might yet be blessed and happy, Mary determined not 
 to broach the subject, at least for a time. Dr. Bryant with- 
 out delay apprised the garrison of the rumor which had 
 reached him, and a courier was immediately despatched to 
 headquarters for reinforcements sufficient to defend this 
 important fortress—this key of the state—from the powerful 
 force now advancing to assault it. Horses were supplied 
 with alacrity, for he had made many and warm friends, and 
 two large tents, together with a baggage-wagon, were readily 
 granted to one who so nobly contributed to the relief of the 
 sick, wounded, and dying. 
 
 At length every arrangement was completed, and the 
 next morning appointed for their departure. Aunt Lizzy . 
 had objected at first, but speedily became reconciled when 
 Dr. Bryant painted, in a graphic manner, the horrors which 
 were about to ensue. 
 
 As the shades of evening came gently on, the girls set out 
 for Mrs. Carlton’s, as from her dwelling they commenced 
 their journey. Aunt Lizzy remained to give some final di« 
 rection, and then came a sorrowful parting with their serv¬ 
 ants, one of whom took Mary in her arms and bade God 
 bless her, while the tears rolled over her wrinkled face, 
 Mary could not repress her own, and she sobbed convul¬ 
 sively. Dr. Bryant, who had come over for them, laid his 
 hand on the shoulder of the true-hearted negress, and 
 said : 
 
 “ Why, Aunt Fanny, you must not excite Miss Irving; 
 she is not strong, you know, and has a long ride before her 
 to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, Doctor, it will do well enough for you to tell 
 me not to cry, but I can’t help it, for I love her as if she 
 was my own child, and if I thought to see her again I should 
 not grieve so much ; but I saw her mother before her, and 
 I know how she grew pale and thin, and then took to the 
 sofa, and never rose up till she was carried to her grave; 
 and can’t I see that blessed child going just like her ? Oh l 
 it’s no use talking to me; she ain’t long for this world, and 
 it’s hard—yes, it’s hard for her to die away from old 
 Fanny ! ” and she covered her face with her apron, and 
 sobbed aloud. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 127 
 
 Mary wiped her own tears quickly away, and taking the 
 hand of her old friend, led her back to the kitchen. For 
 several moments her companions waited anxiously for her; 
 and soon she advanced slowly to meet them. Frank drew 
 her arm through his, and sadly they walked away. Passing 
 the gate, Mary paused and looked out on the river, where 
 she had so often sat at this hour; and sad though sweet 
 associations, infinite in number, crowded upon her mind. 
 
 How calm and beautiful all nature seemed, as though 
 arrayed in its loveliest garb to chain her affection, that, in 
 after years, the memory of that western home might steal 
 gently up amidst surrounding gloom, to charm away the 
 anguish of some bitter hour, and soothe the saddened spirit. 
 Her heart was inexpressibly touched, and she averted her 
 head to conceal the expression of keen sorrow which rested 
 on her face. 
 
 “ This view of the San Antonio has often struck me as 
 particularly fine,” said Dr. Bryant, turning to Florence, 
 whose pale cheek alone attested regret at leaving her home. 
 
 “Yes, I know none superior; and our favorite ramble 
 was along this bank, and down the river side.” 
 
 “ Its windings are multitudinous, yet how graceful every 
 curve: and then, the deep blue of its waters adds not a little 
 to the beauty of the whole. But we have not leisure to 
 admire it now, for your cousin must not be chilled, and the 
 wind blows freshly from the north.” 
 
 He stepped on as he spoke, but feeling the small hands 
 clasped over his arm, looked earnestly down into the pale 
 face at his side. Mary was bending a last, long look on 
 house and tree and river; as they walked on, the different 
 objects passed beyond her view, and then a faint moan es¬ 
 caped her lips. She met the anxious gaze of her friend, and 
 replied to its silent questoning; 
 
 “ Forgive what doubtless seems a great weakness. You 
 and Florry can not sympathize with me now. You will both 
 return ere long, but my eyes have rested for the last 
 time on each loved object. I have dreaded this parting 
 from the home that has grown so dear to me—but the 
 pang is over.” 
 
 Her deep blue eyes rested on his face, and touchingly 
 sad was the expression, as she swept back the clustering 
 
128 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 hair from her brow. The lips quivered, as of late they 
 often did when she was excited. Florence did not hear 
 her words, for she had crossed the street; but Frank’s heart 
 throbbed violently as he listened to her low, sad tone. 
 Laying his hand on hers, that were tightly clasped, he 
 pressed them gently, and said, in a slightly faltering voice: 
 
 “ For Florence’s sake—for mine—for your own, do not 
 give way to such gloomy forebodings! Your depressed 
 spirits will act injuriously on your health. Let me beg you 
 to place no confidence in Aunt Fanny’s words at parting; 
 she was herself scarce conscious of their import.” 
 
 “ I have no gloomy forebodings, no apprehension of the 
 future, and generally no depressed spirits ; but I know full 
 well that my life is gradually wasting away, slowly, gently, 
 and almost without pain. I am sinking to an early tomb. 
 Yet I would not have it otherwise if I could. Death has 
 long lost all terrors for me; I have no fear—all is peace 
 and quiet. I am paining you. Forgive me, Dr. Bryant; 
 but knowing that you and Florry were anxious about me, 
 I thought it best to tell you that I am fully aware of my 
 danger, if so I can term what I would not avert. 
 
 A shudder crept over the strong man as he looked down 
 at the calm, colorless face of her who spoke so quietly of 
 death, and of quitting forever the scenes she loved so truly. 
 
 “ I cannot—will not believe you are so ill. You will 
 grow stronger when we leave this place, and a year hence, 
 when quite well again, you will beg pardon for the pain you 
 have given me.” 
 
 A faint smile played round the thin lips, and in silence 
 they proceeded to Mrs. Carlton’s. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 “ Who’s here besides foul weather ? ” 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Far away stretched the prairie, bounded, ocean-like, 
 only by the horizon; the monotony occasionally relieved by 
 clumps of aged live oaks, which tossed their branches to 
 and fro in summer breezes and in wintry blasts, and lent 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 129 
 
 a mournful cadence to the howlings of the tempest. Now 
 and then a herd of deer, lifting proudly their antlered heads, 
 seemed to scorn danger from the hand of man, as they 
 roamed so freely over the wide, desolate waste which pos¬ 
 sessed no visible limits. And groups of cattle, starting 
 at the slightest sound, tossed their horns in defiance, and 
 browsed along the mosquit, in many places so luxuriant as 
 well-nigh to conceal their forms. The day had been unu¬ 
 sually warm for January, and the sun beamed down with a 
 sickening intensity which made the blood tingle in the 
 veins. Toward noon the sky assumed a dull, leaden cast, 
 and light flakes of cloud, like harbingers of evil, scudded 
 ominously overhead. The sun passed the zenith, and a 
 low sighing breeze swept moaningly across the wide waste, 
 even as the wail of lost spirits floats out on the midnight 
 air, and then is hushed forever. 
 
 The cattle that stood leisurely cropping about, and now 
 and then moving a few paces, lifted their heads, snuffed 
 the air, and, with a simultaneous lowing, started at full 
 speed to the timbered tracts, where they were wont to resort 
 for shelter from the winds of winter. On, on they rushed, 
 till in the distance one might fancy them a quantity of 
 beetles, or other insects, dotting the surface before them. 
 Soon not a vestige remained of the flying herd, and happy it 
 was for them they made good their retreat, and gained a place 
 of refuge ere the “ norther’’ burst in all its keenness on the 
 unprotected plain. Wildly the piercing blasts whistled 
 through the trees, and rushed furiously on, unimpeded by 
 the forests, which in more eastern lands present a formi¬ 
 dable barrier to the progress. The rain began to fall heavily, 
 when a small cavalcade sought the protection of a clump of 
 oaks, by placing the leafy boughs between themselves and 
 the beating, driving torrents. The party consisted of 
 several ladies and gentlemen, two children, and as many 
 servants ; the latter in a wagon, the remainder on horseback. 
 With all possible speed the gentlemen dismounted, and, 
 tightly buttoning their great-coats about them, proceeded to 
 stretch two tents, by means of poles and pins, carried in the 
 wagon. 
 
 Night closed in, and finding a sheltered spot beneath the 
 
 trees, a large fire was kindled, which threw its ruddv light 
 
 9 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 130 
 
 into the surrounding tents, and illumined the entire grove. 
 The horses were picketed out, almost within reach from the 
 tents, and the wagon containing their stores drawn so near 
 as, in some degree, to shelter them. The servants prepared 
 the evening meal—simple, it is true, yet enjoyed far more 
 than a sumptuous repast of Indian delicacies, and untold 
 ragouts, eaten without the sauce of hunger produced by their 
 long ride. More than a week had elapsed since leaving San 
 Antonio, and Mary had borne better than they dared to hope 
 the fatigue of the journey. 
 
 To-night, however, she lay exhausted on her pallet, the 
 thin cheek bright with fever: gently she declined all that 
 was proffered, and her hollow cough chased the smile from 
 the lips of her friends. Dr. Bryant knelt beside her, and 
 taking one hot hand in his own, asked, in a low anxious 
 voice, if she suffered. 
 
 Turning away her face, she said—“ Oh no, not much. 
 There is, however, such a painful throbbing about my heart 
 I can scarcely breathe. And I not feverish ? ” she continued. 
 
 “ Yes and he placed his fingers on the pulse, beating 
 violently. “ I am afraid you have taken severe cold—the 
 day has been so inclement. ” And, with a somewhat un¬ 
 steady hand, he administered a potion. 
 
 “ Don’t feel uneasy about me, Doctor, I shall be better 
 when I sleep.” And she turned away, and wearily closed 
 her eyes. 
 
 When the camp-fire burned low, and all slumbered save 
 Mary, who could not calm her feverish excitement, and lay 
 wide awake, she fancied she heard steps around the tent. 
 All was silent; then again came the sound ; and raising 
 herself, she thought she perceived some one standing near 
 the entrance. The figure disappeared, and then followed 
 a rumbling, stamping, kicking, as though the horses were 
 verily bewitched. “ The Indians ! ” thought Mary ; and 
 quickly rising, she threw a black mantle round her, and 
 creeping to the door of the tent, peeped cautiously out. 
 The horses still seemed restless, stamping and snorting, and 
 she thought she could softly reach the adjoining tent and 
 rouse the gentlemen, knowing that their arms were in read¬ 
 iness. She had just stepped out of her own tent, and stood 
 out of doors, when she caught a glimpse of a dark, muffled 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE A LA Ml, 131 
 
 figure walking toward her. The rain had ceased, but it was 
 very dark, and only by the aid of the firelight, now grown 
 dim, she perceived it. A cold shudder crept over her, as, 
 raising her eyes to the blackened sky but an instant, she 
 sprung forward toward the place where she fancied the 
 gentlemen were sleeping. A hand was laid on her arm, and . 
 a deep voice sounded in her ear: 
 
 “ Be not alarmed, Miss Mary, I am here 1 ” 
 
 She trembled so that she could scarcely stand. He sup* 
 ported her a moment, ere she replied in a whisper— 
 
 “ What causes the disturbance to-night ? ” 
 
 “ I feel assured there are Indians about, though you need 
 fear nothing, for they are not in sufficient numbers to attack 
 us. There are four men in our party—nearly a dozen mus¬ 
 kets, besides my pistols, and plenty of ammunition. Were 
 you one of the timid sort, I should not venture to tell you 
 my apprehensions : but I know that you are not. I have 
 not slept, or even lain down; and a while ago, I heard the 
 sound of hoofs approaching. Taking my pistols, I went 
 round to the horses, and had not waited many moments 
 before I saw two figures, evidently reconnoitering and plan¬ 
 ning the abduction of our horses, who seemed much alarmed. 
 
 I suppose the intruders must have seen me, for they suddenly 
 wheeled off and galloped away.’* 
 
 “ Perhaps there is a party not far distant, for whose as¬ 
 sistance they have gone.” 
 
 “ Possibly, though I think not •* but you must not stand 
 on this wet ground.” He led her to the tent, and seating 
 himself near the door, continued: 
 
 “ I shall not sleep to-night, and rest assured you will be 
 most carefully guarded. You were imprudent to venture out 
 on such a night.” 
 
 “ What! when I thought there was danger, and none, 
 save myself, aware of it ? ” 
 
 “ Did you think I could rest, knowing, as I do, how you 
 are suffering ? ” 
 
 “ I never imagined you were up, or watching, for I heard 
 no sound near me.” 
 
 “Well, no matter; sleep, if you can, and dream of peace, 
 and quiet, and perfect happiness.” He sighed heavily as 
 he spoke, and rising, renewed the fire. 
 
132 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 Mary lay watching him as he paced to and fro in front of 
 the burning logs—his arms folded across his chest, and his 
 cap drawn over the brow : gradually a sense of utter weariness 
 stole over her, and she slept. 
 
 At dawn a bustle commenced in the camp, and prepara¬ 
 tion made—first for breakfast, then for moving. 
 
 When Mary came out, her pale face and wearied look at¬ 
 tracted Mrs. Carlton’s attention. 
 
 “ My dear child, I am afraid you are scarcely able to 
 travel to-day ; did you not sleep well ? ” 
 
 “ Not so soundly as I could have wished,” she said, pass¬ 
 ing her hand over her brow, as if to remove some painful 
 thought. 
 
 Dr. Bryant acquainted them with the adventures of the 
 night suggesting, that in future some of the party should 
 watch, as security for their horses; and all agreed that it 
 was advisable. 
 
 “ How readily one might suppose this a gipsy encamp¬ 
 ment. Miss Hamilton and myself are quite dark enough to 
 favor the illusion, and Ellen and Mr. Carlton would pass as 
 of gipsy descent; but what would they think of Miss Mary ? 
 She is decidedly anti-gipsy in her appearance.” 
 
 “ I can tell you, Uncle Frank,” cried Elliot, clapping his 
 hands ; “ they would take Miss Mary for an angel that came 
 to our tent, like the one that came down to see Abraham.” 
 
 “ Unfortunately, angels never appear in the form of a 
 lady, Elliot; so you must tax your ingenuity to dispose of 
 me in a different manner,” said Mary, smiling gently on the 
 noble boy beside her. 
 
 “ Indeed, I would sooner think you ought to be an angel 
 than any gentleman I know, or lady either; don’t you think 
 so too, Uncle Frank ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly I do; but, Elliot, you should not have made 
 me say so in Miss Florence’s presence. You forget that 
 she is also a young lady.” 
 
 “ No, I don’t, uncle, and I ask her pardon if I was rude; 
 but I heard you say Miss Mary was an angel, and though I 
 like Miss Florence very much indeed, I can’t help thinking 
 so too.” 
 
 Dr. Bryant’s cheek flushed, and he glanced quickly at 
 Mary. Mr. and Mrs. Carlton and Florence laughed good- 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 133 
 
 naturedly; and laying his hand on the boy’s head, Frank 
 said : 
 
 “ My very promising nephew, you will never be accused 
 of want of candor if you grow up in your present spirit,” 
 
 Mary drew the child to her, and whispered in his ear: 
 
 “ Your uncle meant that I should soon be in Heaven, El¬ 
 liot ; and I hope it will not be very long before I am an 
 angel. Don’t you see how thin and pale I am ? ” 
 
 Elliot’s eyes filled, as he looked earnestly at the gentle 
 girl, so wasted of late, and throwing his arms about her 
 neck, he hid his face on her shoulder, and murmured: 
 
 “ Oh 1 you must not go from us—we can’t spare you even 
 to God l Why does he want tc take you ? He has plenty 
 of angels already around him 1 Mother and uncle and I 
 had almost as soon die ourselves as see you go away 
 forever.” 
 
 None heard what passed between them ; but Mrs. Carl¬ 
 ton saw a look of pain on Mary’s pure white brow, and 
 gently drawing her son away, changed the conversation by 
 asking if it would not be better for Mary to ride awhile in 
 the wagon. 
 
 “ I am afraid she would find the jolting rather too much 
 for her. However, it will answer as a change, and by driv¬ 
 ing myself, I can avoid many inequalities. So, Miss Irving, 
 make up your mind to relinquish your babicca at least for 
 to-day.” 
 
 “ You are very kind, Dr. Bryant, but I greatly prefer your 
 riding as usual. Indeed you need not look so incredulous* 
 I won’t allow you to make such a sacrifice.” 
 
 “ I was not aware that I was making any sacrifice,” he 
 coldly answered, and turned away. 
 
 Mary’s lip quivered with internal pain, but she offered no 
 further opposition. 
 
 All was in readiness for moving on. Dr. Bryant stood 
 arranging Florence’s bridle, and bantering her on her inat¬ 
 tention to the reins. She laughed in her turn. 
 
 “ Indeed, Doctor, don’t you think me a capital horse¬ 
 woman ? you will certainly admit it, after being vanquished 
 in a race ? ” 
 
 “ Really, Miss Florence, I rather think the credit due to 
 your fine horse than to your skill as a rider. 
 
*34 
 
 XNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 “ Ah, incorrigible as usual, I see, Doctor l” and she rode 
 j>ff to join Mr. Carlton. 
 
 Mr. Carlton had placed Mary in the wagon, and carefully 
 arranged her shawls that she might rest easily. Frank 
 quietly seated himself, and drove on. 
 
 “ I shall not exert myself in the least to entertain you, 
 so you need not expect it; for having very politely told me 
 you did not desire my company, I shall not disturb you with 
 my chatter, I promise you, and take this opportunity to 
 inform you that my tympanums are at your service the 
 remainder of the day.** 
 
 He glanced over his shoulder at the frail form nearly bur- 
 led beneath the weight of shawls and cloaks wrapt about 
 her. She smiled, and laid her head on her arm : as she did 
 so, he, looking at her, failed to perceive a large stone in the 
 track, and the wheels passing directly over it caused the 
 wagon to jolt most unmercifully. 
 
 Florence was just in the rear, and, unable to control her 
 mirth, laughed outright as Frank and Mary bounced up and 
 down; and, riding up to them, merrily asked “ if Mary duly 
 appreciated her good fortune in having so careful and scien¬ 
 tific a driver ? ” 
 
 Not a little amused, yet scarce able to laugh, the latter re¬ 
 plied that “ she did indeed congratulate herself on the change 
 of drivers, as she would not have survived the day had it 
 been otherwise.” 
 
 Frank joined heartily in their merriment. 
 
 “ Miss Hamilton,” said he, “ if you only knew what 
 caused me to overlook that unfortunate stone, you would be 
 more lenient in your criticisms.” 
 
 “ I am very sure you will adduce every possible reason in 
 your own favor, sir, and therefore feel no sympathy for your 
 carelessness,” she retorted. 
 
 “ Really you make me out as incorrigible a self-excuser 
 as the heroine of Miss Edgeworth’s juvenile tales; though 
 even she chanced upon a good excuse occasionally. Come, 
 try me, and see what I can urge in my own defense.” 
 
 “ Well, then, I ask you, a la Godfrey , what you were 
 thinking of when you, who had an ailing lady in your cart, 
 drove directly over the largest rock you have seen in a 
 week ? ” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO • 135 
 
 “In the first place, I did n t see it. You need not look 
 quite so incredulous; I assure you I did not.” 
 
 “ That is very evident, but no excuse at all. Pray, wh„re 
 were your eyes ? ” 
 
 “ Where nature intended them to be, I suppose.” 
 
 “ Nonsense ! why didn’t you use them ? ” 
 
 « Because I have not the faculty of looking two ways at 
 Once, like Brahma ; and my optics were irresistibly drawn 
 in an opposite direction.” 
 
 “ A truce to all such excuses! ” 
 
 “ Patience, Miss Florence, hear me only once more. The 
 reason is, that I was looking at your cousin over there, and 
 calculating the chances of her surviving suffocation.” 
 
 “ There is certainly some danger. Pray, Mary, why 
 wrap up so closely ? ^Eolus has closed the mouth of his 
 cave, and the warring winds are securely pent in their 
 prison.” 
 
 “ Are you not very much edified Miss Mary? I should 
 beg pardon for such a waste of time and talk, if I were not 
 aware that 
 
 “ i A little nonsense now and then, 
 
 Is relished by the wisest men.’ M 
 
 As Mary made no reply, he turned around and regarded 
 her earnestly, Her hat had fallen back from the face, which 
 rested on his black cloak. Every vestige of mirth fled from 
 his countenance as they gazed on the sleeping girl. The 
 feverish flush had left the cheek, now perfectly wan; the 
 dark brown hair clung on the pure, beautiful brow, and be¬ 
 neath the closed eyes were dark circles, traced by mental 
 suffering. The expression of the face was perfectly calm, 
 yet a wearied look, as though longing to be at rest, lingered 
 there. So motionless she lay, that Frank hastily placed his 
 hand on hers to feel if warmth and vitality remained. 
 Slowly and faint came the pulsations, and, as he watched 
 her deathlike slumber, his cheek grew pale, a look of un¬ 
 utterable anguish settled on his noble brow, and the finely 
 cut lips were tightly compressed, as with some acute though 
 hidden pain. Florence slowly returned to Mr. and Mrs. 
 Carlton—no smile passed her lips the remainder of the day \ 
 she seemed now, for the first time, to realize her cousin’s 
 
tNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 136 
 
 danger, and naught could divert her mind from this new 
 grief. 
 
 Dr. Bryant bent his head upon his breast, and murmured 
 in saddened tones : “ Oh, Mary ! Mary ! how gladly would 
 I give all I possess on earth to see you strong and well 
 again.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 “And therefore my heart is heavy 
 With a sense of unquiet pain, 
 
 For but Heaven can tell if the parted 
 Shall meet in the earth again. 
 
 “ With Him be the time and the season 
 Of our meeting again with thee : 
 
 Whether here, on these earthly borders, 
 
 Or the shore of the world to be.” 
 
 Carey. 
 
 One day our party had traveled further than on any pre« 
 vious occasion: long and tedious was the ride, still they 
 pushed on, hoping to reach some stream ere the tents were 
 pitched for the night, as an abundant supply of pure fresh 
 water was essential to the comfort of their camp. In the 
 metaphorical strain of a certain writer—“ Phoebus drove his 
 steeds to be foddered in their western stables.” Slowly 
 twilight fell upon the earth, and, one by one, the lamps of 
 heaven were lit. The wagon in which Dr. Bryant and Mary 
 rode was rather in the rear of the party, as the riders pressed 
 anxiously forward. The cool night-wind blew fresh upon the 
 fevered brow of the invalid, and gently lifted and bore back 
 the clustering curls. 
 
 “ I am very much afraid you will take cold: ” and Dr. 
 Bryant wrapped his coat carefully about her. 
 
 “ Thank you: ” and she sank back in its heavy folds, and 
 looked up to the brilliant firmament, where the stars glittered, 
 like diamonds on a ground of black velvet, in the. clear, 
 frosty air. 
 
 “ Orion has culminated ; and how splendidly it glows to* 
 night, I think I never saw it so brilliant.” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 137 
 
 “ Perhaps it appears so from the peculiar position whence 
 you view it. You never observed it before from a wagon, 
 in a broad prairie, with naught intervening between the 
 constellation and yourself save illimitable space, though I 
 agree with you in thinking it particularly splendid. I have 
 ever regarded it as the most beautiful among the many con¬ 
 stellations which girt the heavens.” 
 
 “ I have often wondered if Cygnus was not the favorite of 
 papists, Dr. Bryant.” 
 
 “ Ah ! it never occurred to me before, but, since you men¬ 
 tion it, I doubt not they are partial to it. How many super¬ 
 stitious horrors are infused into childish brains by nurses 
 and nursery traditions ! I well remember with what terror 
 I regarded the Dolphin, or, in common parlance, ‘Job’s 
 Coffin,’ having been told that, when that wrathful cluster 
 was on the meridian, some dreadful evil would most inevita¬ 
 bly befall all who ventured to look upon it; and often, in my 
 boyhood, I have covered my face with my hands, and asked 
 its whereabouts. Indeed I regarded it much as H£neas did 
 Orion, when he says: 
 
 “ * To that blest shore we steered our destined way. 
 
 When sudden dire Orion roused the sea ! 
 
 All charged with tempests rose the baleful star, 
 
 And on our navy poured his watery war.’ 
 
 The contemplation of the starry heavens has ever exerted 
 an elevating influence on my mind. In viewing its glories, 
 I am borne far from the puerilities of earth, and my soul 
 seeks a purer and more noble sphere.” 
 
 “ Your quotation from Virgil recalled a passage in Job— 
 ‘ Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turn- 
 eth the shadow of death into morning.’ Oh ! how inimitably 
 sublime is inspired language—and ‘ turneth the shadow of 
 death into morning.’ And how comforting the promise con¬ 
 veyed,” said Mary, earnestly. 
 
 “ Miss Irving, don’t you admire Cassiopeia very much ?” 
 said Dr. Bryant, wishing to turn the current of her thoughts. 
 “ I think it very beautiful, particularly when it occupies its 
 present position, and, as it were, offers to weary travelers 
 so inviting a seat. Yet often I am strangely awed, in gaz¬ 
 ing on the group so enveloped in unfathomable mystery. 
 
138 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 Who may say when another of its jewels shall flicker and go 
 out ? And when may not our own world to other planets 
 be a ‘ Lost Star ? * How childish associations cling to one 
 in after years. I never looked up at Cassiopeia, without re* 
 calling the time when my tutor gave me as a parsing lesson, 
 the first lines of the * Task 5 —literally a task to me (mind I 
 do not claim the last as original, for it is a plagiarism on 
 somebody, I forget now who). My teacher first read the 
 passage carefully over, explaining each idea intended to be 
 conveyed, and at the conclusion turned to an assistant, and 
 remarked that ‘ with Cassiopeia for a model, he wondered 
 chairs were not earlier constructed.’ I wondered in silence 
 what that hard word could signify, and at length summoned 
 courage to ask an explanation. A few nights afterward, 
 visiting at my father’s, he took me out, pointed to the con¬ 
 stellation, and gave the origin of the name, while, to my 
 great joy, I discovered the resemblance to a chair. Ah! 
 that hour is as fresh in my memory as though I stood but 
 last night by his side and listened to his teachings. 
 
 “ Yes, who will deny the magic influence of association ? 
 After all, Dr. Bryant, it is not the intrinsic beauty of an 
 object that affords us such delight, but ofttimes the memory 
 of the happy past, so blended with the beauty viewed as 
 scarcely to be analyzed in the soothing emotions which steal 
 into the heart. Such a night as this ever reminds me of 
 the beautiful words of Willis, in his ( Contemplations ; 9 and, 
 like Alethe, I often ask, 6 When shall I gather my wings, 
 and, like a rushing thought, stretch onward, star by star, up 
 into heaven ? ’ ” 
 
 A silence ensued for several moments, and then the cry 
 of “ Water 1 ” “ water! ” fell refreshingly on the ears of the 
 wearied travelers, and the neighboring stream was hailed as 
 joyfully as was in olden time the well of Gem-Gem. 
 
 Soon the tents were pitched, and a bright crackling fire 
 kindled. Florence, declaring she was too much fatigued for 
 supper, threw herself on her pallet. Aunt Lizzy and Mrs. 
 Carlton were busily unpacking some of their utensils, and 
 Mary, closely wrapt up, stood by the blazing logs, thinking 
 how cheerful its ruddy light made every object seem, and 
 wondering if, after all, the Ghebers were so much to blame. 
 Mr. Carlton joined her; and after inquiring how she bore 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 139 
 
 their very fatiguing ride, remarked that in a few more days 
 their journeyings would be over. 
 
 “ I shall almost regret its termination. This mode of 
 traveling seems very pleasant to me, and you, who are 
 strong and well, must enjoy it much more.” 
 
 Just then the sound of approaching hoofs caused her to 
 look toward their wagon ; and she perceived two men mount¬ 
 ed, one in the act of descending, while Dr. Bryant advanced 
 quickly to meet him. 
 
 Mr. Carlton left her. Silently she looked on, wondering 
 who the strangers could possibly be, when the words fell 
 with startling distinctness on her listening ear: 
 
 “ Dudley Stewart! do my eyes deceive me ? ” 
 
 “ Frank Bryant is it possible I meet you here ? ” 
 
 The tones of the last speaker were too familiar to be mis¬ 
 taken. She trembled from head to foot as the past rose 
 before her. Her first thought was of Florence. 
 
 “ Oh, if he is married, this meeting will be terrible ! ” and 
 her heart throbbed violently as the gentlemen approached 
 her. Scarce conscious of her movements, she advanced to 
 meet Dr. Bryant, whose arm was linked in that of the new 
 comer. They met: the fire-light glowed on the face of both* % 
 
 “ Mr. Stewart! ” and the wasted hand was extended. 
 
 “ Mary Irving! or is this an illusion ? ” Tightly the 
 hand was clasped. 
 
 “ It is I—your old pupil, though so altered, I wonder not 
 that you fail to recognize me.” She lifted her eyes and met 
 Dr. Bryant’s gaze, deep and piercing, as though he were 
 reading her inmost soul. Mr. Stewart looked long at the 
 face turned toward him. 
 
 “ Frank, you did not tell me she was with you ! Oh, how 
 changed—how wasted you are ! But what means this black 
 dress ? ” and his fingers clutched her mourning gown, while 
 his deep tone faltered. Mary drew closer to his side, and 
 murmured: 
 
 “ Florry is well: but my uncle has been taken from us.” 
 Her head sunk on her bosom as she spoke. 
 
 “ Where is Florence ? ” and he tightly clasped her hand 
 between his own. 
 
 A shudder crept over Dr. Bryant, who had not heard 
 
 their words, and he walked quickly away, 
 
140 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 “ Florry is in the tent. Mr. Stewart, we heard that you 
 were married ; can this be true ? ” 
 
 “ No, no ! Did your cousin credit the report ? ” 
 
 “ Yes; and ere you make yourself known, let me in some 
 degree prepare her for the meeting.” 
 
 So saying, she sought Florence, and asked if she were 
 sleeping. 
 
 “ No, Mary; can I do anything for you ? ” and she 
 raised her head. 
 
 “ Yes, Florry, come with me—I want to speak to you.” 
 
 Her cousin accompanied her to the door, and standing so 
 that the tent intervened between them and Mr. Stewart, 
 Mary lgid her hand on Florence’s shoulder, and said: 
 
 “ I have just learned, Florry, that Mr. Stewart is not 
 married.” 
 
 “ Mary, Mary l why touch a chord which ever vibrates 
 with the keenest agony ? There is no happiness for me on 
 earth—I have known that for long, and now I am striving 
 to fix my thoughts, and all of hope that remains, on 
 heaven.” 
 
 Mary linked her arm in Florence’s, and gently drawing 
 her forward, replied : 
 
 “ God has not promised heaven as the price of every 
 earthly joy and comfort. Can you not still hope for happi¬ 
 ness ? ” 
 
 “ Mary, I am parted forever from him whom I have loved 
 so devotedly ; yet I cease to repine. I know my lot, and I 
 will pass through life alone, yes, alone, without a murmur.” 
 
 “ Not so, Florence—my own treasured Florence 1 ” 
 
 She turned quickly, and was clasped to the heart of him 
 she had sworn to love alone. 
 
 “ Am I dreaming ? ” said Florence, gazing eagerly up into 
 the noble face before her. He lifted his cap from his brow, 
 and bent his head that the light might fall full upon it. A 
 gleam of perfect joy irradiated her beautiful face, and, lean¬ 
 ing her head on his shoulder, she whispered: “ Forgive me 
 -—for I doubted you.” 
 
 He bent, and sealed her pardon with a long kiss. 
 
 Mary stole away to Mrs. Carlton to impart the good news; 
 Dr. Bryant had already communicated it. Warmly she sym¬ 
 pathized with them in again meeting an old friend; but 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 141 
 
 Mary heeded not her words, for her eyes were riveted on 
 Frank’s stern brow and slightly curling lip. A mist rose 
 before her, and catching for support at the tent, she would 
 have fallen, had not his strong arm encircled her ; and soon 
 she lay motionless in her tent. He stood and looked on her 
 a moment, then knelt and clasped the cold hands. Mary 
 had not swooned, though well-nigh insensible, and a low 
 moan of anguish escaped her lips, colorless, and writhing 
 with pain. 
 
 “ Can I do nothing for you ? ” 
 
 “ No, thank you ; only do not tell Florry and Mr. 
 Stewart I am ill. It would only damp the joy of their 
 meeting.” 
 
 He left her, and met the lovers as they sought the re¬ 
 mainder of the party. He understood at a glance the posi¬ 
 tion of affairs, and with the sad conviction that Mary loved 
 Mr. Stewart, and loved him in vain, he strove to repress his 
 emotion and appear as usual. 
 
 Florence withdrew her hand from Mr. Stewart’s clasp, and, 
 with a deep blush, passed Frank in order to reach the tent. 
 He placed himself before it. 
 
 “ Miss Hamilton, I can’t allow any one to disturb your 
 cousin; she is almost exhausted by our long ride, and I for¬ 
 bid all company, as she needs rest and quiet.” 
 
 “ I will not disturb her in the least, I assure you, Doctor.” 
 But he persisted, and she was forced to form one of the 
 circle that now gathered round the fire. 
 
 Mr. Stewart, in answer to Dr. Bryant’s inquiries, replied 
 that he had long felt anxious to visit San Antonio, but had 
 been detained at home by important business till within a 
 few weeks, when he set out for Austin, and obtaining there 
 a sort of guide and companion, was hastening on, hoping to 
 reach the former place ere the arrival of the Mexican 
 forces. 
 
 “ Having heard,” continued he, “ that Mr. Hamilton’s 
 death left his family somewhat unprotected, I felt particu¬ 
 larly anxious on their account. Seeing your camp-fire, at¬ 
 tracted us in this direction, and happy am I to meet so 
 many old friends.” 
 
 To Florence he had been far more explicit, detailing the 
 
 causes which produced a most fortunate change in his cir- 
 
142 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Cumstances, and his immediate determination to scck net 
 in her Western home. 
 
 “ You will return with us to Washington then, Stewart, as 
 we possess the treasure you are in search of ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, if none of the party offer any objection,” replied he. 
 
 “ I don’t know that any feel disposed to act so ungrate* 
 fully : suppose we inquire, however. Miss Hamilton, have 
 you any objection to receiving, as an escort and protector, 
 this amiable cavalier, who has wandered so far from home 
 to offer his services ? ” 
 
 “ Frank, it is hardly fair to make her speak for the party; 
 some may differ with her, on so important a point.” 
 
 “You seem quite certain as to her sentiments on this 
 subject. Upon my word, Miss Florence, if I were you, I 
 should most assuredly take this occasion to teach him a 
 little humility; for instance, just tell him it makes no differ¬ 
 ence with you—that it is perfectly immaterial.” 
 
 “ In following your advice, Doctor, the responsibility will 
 be inevitably transferred to yourself; and I must thank you 
 for so politely relieving me.” 
 
 “ I see no reason, Stewart, wdiy you should not join our 
 party, and lend your assistance toward enlivening the tedi* 
 ous hours yet in store for us ; though only a few more days 
 of travel remain, thank Heaven.” 
 
 “ One would suppose, from the fear of ennui which seems 
 to cloud your future, that Mary and I had not succeeded so 
 happily as we imagined, in our efforts to entertain you.” 
 
 “ Pardon me, Miss Florence, if I have failed duly to ap¬ 
 preciate your kind efforts; though candor compels the 
 avowal, that I was not aware any extraordinary exertion was 
 made in my behalf.” 
 
 “ Really, Frank, I should say you have made considerable 
 progress in raising yourself in your own estimation since 
 last I heard you converse. Mrs. Carlton, I am afraid this 
 climate is unfavorable for the growth of at least two of the 
 cardinal virtues.” 
 
 “ Your insinuation is contemptible, because utterly with¬ 
 out grounds. Miss Florence, I appeal to you, as worthy the 
 privilege of acting as umpire in this important discussion. 
 Have you ever observed aught in my conduct indicating a 
 want of humility ? 99 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 J 43 
 
 “ Unfortunately, Doctor, should I return an answer in 
 your favor, it would be at the expense of a virtue equally 
 entitled to pre-eminence.” 
 
 “ To the very candid Miss Hamilton, I must return thanks 
 for her disinterested and very flattering decision.” 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted by a call to the 
 evening meal, and gladly they obeyed the welcome sum¬ 
 mons. 
 
 Florence glancing round perceived the absence of her 
 cousin, and inquired the cause. 
 
 “ I dare say she is asleep, poor child,” said Aunt Lizzy. 
 
 “ She is trying to rest, Miss Hamilton, and I would not 
 advise any interruption. She needs quiet, for she was sorely 
 tried by this day’s fatigues,” observed Dr. Bryant. 
 
 “ I am afraid so,” replied Florence, an anxious look again 
 settling on her face. “ Oh, I wish on her account we could 
 reach a place of rest and safety. I fear she has failed in 
 strength since leaving San Antonio.” 
 
 “ How sadly changed she has become : had she not spoken 
 in her old, familiar tones, I should not have known her. I 
 earnestly hope there is nothing serious in her attack, and 
 that she will soon regain her former bloom; it pains me to 
 see her so altered,” said Mr. Stewart. 
 
 “ Sh'e cannot possibly improve while subjected to the 
 fatigues of this journey. I feared she was scarce able to 
 endure it,” answered Frank. 
 
 The conversation turned on more agreeable topics, and 
 soon—by all but Frank, who could not forget her look of 
 anguish—she was for a time forgotten. 
 
 Mary heard from her couch of suffering the cheerful 
 blending of voices* though nothing distinct reached her ear ; 
 and as none approached to soothe her by affectionate in¬ 
 quiries, a sense of neglect stole over her. But too habit¬ 
 ually accustomed to judge gently of others and forget herself, 
 it passed quickly away. She knelt on her pallet, and clasp¬ 
 ing her thin hands, raised her heart to God, in the low, feeble 
 tone of one well-nigh spent: 
 
 “ My God, thou readest my heart 1 Thou knowest how, 
 day by day, I have striven to love thee more and serve thee 
 better. Yet, oh, Father of mercies I my soul is tortured with 
 unutterable agony! Oh ! on the verge of the tomb, my heart 
 
144 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 still clings to earth and its joys. Look down in thy mercy 
 upon me, and help me to fix my thoughts on heaven and 
 thee. For long I have known the vanity of my hope, and 
 the deceitfulness of human things; yet I could not tear 
 away the pleasing image, and turn to thee alone for comfort. 
 Oh, may peace be my portion the few days I have to live, 
 and when death comes, be thou with me, my God, to com¬ 
 fort and take me soon to my home above.” 
 
 She sank back in very weariness. “ Oh, Frank, how could 
 you so mistake me ?—you whom I have loved so long, how 
 could you believe I loved another ? ” 
 
 In the clear sunny light of morning, how cheerful all 
 things looked ; and to a heart at peace with God, nature 
 seemed rejoicing. The deep blue vault arching inimitably 
 above—the musical murmuring of the creek, as it rushed 
 along its rocky bed—the mosquit, bent and glittering with 
 its frosty mantle, blended with the blazing camp-fire and 
 the busy hum of preparation for the day, stole pleasingly 
 into the heart. All the party, save Mary, stood about the 
 fire, warming their fingers and chatting on the various 
 occurrences of their long journey. All paused to welcome 
 the invalid, as she joined them with a slow, feeble step; yet 
 she looked better than she had done since leaving her home. 
 Restlessly she had tossed on her hard couch, and now the 
 hectic flush mantled the thin cheek and brightened the deep 
 blue eyes. The warm congratulations of her friends on her 
 improved appearance brought a sad smile to her lip, and the 
 expression of Dr. Bryant’s countenance told her that he at 
 least realized her danger. Never had Florence looked more 
 beautiful, as the clear cold air brought the glow to her cheek, 
 added to the effect of her mourning dress and the expression 
 of quiet happiness, imparting an indescribable charm to her 
 lovely features. 
 
 “ As you now stand, Miss Florence, looking so earnestly 
 toward the east, you seem to me a perfect realization of 
 Willis’s Jephtha’s Daughter : 
 
 “ ‘ She stood before her father’s gorgeous tent, 
 
 To listen for his coming. Her loose hair 
 Was resting on her shoulder, like a cloud 
 Floating around a statue, and the wind 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 145 
 
 Just swaying her light robe, revealed a shape 
 Praxiteles might worship : 
 
 Her countenance was radiant with love : 
 
 She looked to die for it—a being whose 
 Whole existence was the pouring out 
 Of rich and deep affections.’ ” 
 
 As he looked upon her these lines were uttered half un* 
 consciously; and then turning to Mary, he gently asked if 
 he might speak what was passing in his mind. 
 
 “ Certainly, Frank—continue your quotation; the lines 
 never seemed so beautiful before ; ” said Mr. Stewart, glanc¬ 
 ing at Florence as he spoke. 
 
 “ Doubtless not, Stewart, because never so applied. Miss 
 Hamilton, your cousin looks more as did the Jewish maiden 
 at close of evening: 
 
 “ ‘ Her face was pale, but very beautiful ; her lip 
 Had a more delicate outline, and the tint 
 Was deeper. But her countenance was like the 
 Majesty of Angels.’ ” 
 
 “Di. Bryant, is it possible you so far forget yourself and 
 previously expressed opinions, as to make quotations ? I 
 thought you a sworn foe to the practise.” 
 
 “ On ordinary occasions, I am : and you may rest assured 
 it is the last time I commit such an absurdity by a camp fire. 
 I think you once asked me my objection—will you hear it 
 now ? When I was quite young, I one day read an anecdote 
 of the celebrated Greek professor, Dr. Porson, which gave 
 me a strong bias against quotations, particularly locating 
 them, which necessarily follows. Porson was once traveling 
 in a stage-coach, when a young Oxonian, fresh from college, 
 was amusing some ladies with quite a variety of small talk, 
 among other things a quotation from Sophocles, as he said. 
 A Greek quotation in a stage-coach roused Porson, who half 
 slumbered in a quiet corner. ‘ Young gentleman,’ said he, 
 * I think you indulged us, just now, with a quotation from 
 Sophocles ; I don’t happen to remember it there .’— 11 Oh, sir, 5 
 rejoined the tyro, ‘ the quotation is word for word, and in 
 Sophocles too.’ The professor handed him a small edition 
 of Sophocles, and requested him to point out the passage* 
 After rummaging about for some time, he replied : ‘ Upon 
 second thought the passage is in Euripides 5 ‘ Then,’ said 
 
 10 
 
146 INEZ, A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Porson, handing him a similar edition of Euripides, c per* 
 haps you will be so kind as to find it for me in this little 
 book.’ Our young gentleman returned unsuccessfully to the 
 search, with the very pleasant cogitation of ‘ Curse me, if 
 ever I quote Greek again in a stage-coach. ’ The tittering 
 of the ladies increased his confusion, and desperate at last* 
 he exclaimed — 1 Bless me, how dull I am ; I remember now 
 perfectly that the passage is in ^Eschylus.’ The incorrigible 
 professor dived again into his apparently bottomless pocket* 
 and produced an edition of ./Eschylus ; but the astounded 
 Oxonian exclaimed, ‘ Stop the coach 1 Halloa ! coachman, 
 let me out instantly; there is a fellow inside here that has 
 got the whole Bodleian library in his pocket. Let me out, 
 I say—it must be Porson or the devil ! 9 Now previous to 
 reading this anecdote, I must confess to quite a pe?ichant 
 for quotations, but I assure you a full year elapsed ere I 
 ventured on another ; and for a long time the ghost of our 
 gentleman appeared, specter-like, before me, whenever I 
 attempted one.” 
 
 When the merriment subsided, Mr. Stewart asked if it 
 was not of this same professor that a phrenologist remarked, 
 on examining his skull, that “ the most important question 
 was, how the ideas found access to the brain—once inside, 
 and there are very solid reasons to prevent their getting out 
 again.” 
 
 “ Yes, the same. Craniologists admit, I believe, that his 
 was the thickest skull ever examined ; and it is related that 
 when he could no longer articulate English, he spoke Greek 
 with fluency.” 
 
 In a few moments the camp was broken up, and they 
 proceeded on their way. Mary cast a longing glance to¬ 
 ward her horse, now mounted by one of the servants, and 
 was taking her seat in the wagon, when Dr. Bryant said: 
 
 “ Would you like to try your horse a little while this mom* 
 ing ? If it proves too fatiguing, you can return to the 
 wagon.” 
 
 “ I should like it very much, if I felt strong enough, but I 
 could not sit upright so long. Doctor, will you be so kind 
 as to ride my horse for me to-day, and let William drive ? ” 
 
 “ Certainly, if you prefer it; but may I venture to ask 
 your reason ? ” 
 
!47 
 
 £NEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 « You have long been separated from your friend, and 
 naturally wish to be with him. Do not, on my account, 
 remain behind the party, as you are forced to do in driving 
 the wagon, but join Florence and Mr. Stewart, who seem in 
 such fine spirits this beautiful morning. I feel too weary 
 and feeble to talk, and William will take good care of 
 me.” 
 
 He fixed his dark eyes mournfully on her face: she could 
 not meet his gaze, and her head sunk upon her bosom. 
 
 “ Believe me, Miss Irving, every other pleasure is second 
 to that of watching over and being with you. If, in the 
 proposed change, my feelings alone are to be consulted, 
 allow me to remain with you.” 
 
 “ Thank you, Dr. Bryant, you are very kind to remember 
 me so constantly ; my only object was to promote your en¬ 
 joyment of the day.” 
 
 They rode for some distance in silence. 
 
 “ This is my birthday; and how little 1 fancied, on the 
 last anniversary, that I should be so situated,” said Dr. 
 Bryant, as though speaking unconsciously. 
 
 “ How one’s feelings change with maturer years. I re¬ 
 member well that, in my childhood, the lapse of time seemed 
 provokingly slow, and I wondered why, from year to year, 
 it seemed so very long. The last three years of my life, 
 though somewhat checkered, have flown too quickly away. 
 A month ago, I would willingly have recalled them, but they 
 are lost in the ocean of eternity, only to be remembered now 
 as a changing, feverish dream,” Mary replied. 
 
 “ Miss Irving, without the benign and elevating influence 
 of Hope, that great actuating principle from the opening to 
 the close of life, what a dreary blank our existence would 
 prove. In childhood it gorge'ously gilds the future; the 
 tints fade as maturity gains that future, and then it gently 
 brightens the evening of life, while memory flings her 
 mantle of witchery over the past, recalling, in hours of sad¬ 
 ness, all of joy to cheer the heart, and banishing forever the 
 phantoms of terror—the seasons of gloom that once haunted 
 us.” 
 
 “ Yes, how appropriately has the great bard of Time, 
 termed Hope ‘ silver-tongued.’ And then, its soothing accents 
 are felt and acknowledged in the darkest hove* r.f human triaL 
 
148 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 When about to sever every earthly tie—when on the eve of 
 parting with every object rendered dear by nature and as¬ 
 sociation—when the gloomy portals of the silent tomb open 
 to receive us, then comes Hope to paint the joys of heaven. 
 Our reunion with those we have loved and lost—perfect 
 freedom from sin—the society of angels, and the spirits ‘of 
 the just made perfect; the presence of our Saviour, and an 
 everlasting home in the bosom of our God.” 
 
 A look of unutterable peace and joy settled on the face of 
 Mary as she finished speaking and sank back, her hands 
 clasped, and her eyes raised as though in communion with 
 the spirits above. 
 
 Dr. Bryant’s eyes rested with a sort of fascination on heT 
 countenance. 
 
 “ You have this hope; yes, already your soul turns from 
 earth and its vanities to the pure, unfailing fount of heav¬ 
 enly joy. Oh! that I, like you, could soon find peace and 
 perfect happiness ? I have striven against the bitter feelings 
 which of late have crept into my heart; still, despite my 
 efforts, they gather rapidly about me. I look forward, and 
 feel sick at heart. Turbid are all the streams of earthly 
 pleasures, and fully now I realize those lines, which once 
 seemed the essence of misanthropy— 
 
 * I thought upon this hollow world, 
 
 And all its hollow crew/ 
 
 For a time I found delight in intellectual pursuits, but soon 
 wearied of what failed to bring real comfort in hours of 
 trial.” 
 
 “ You need some employment to draw forth every faculty: 
 in a life of active benevolence and usefulness, this will be 
 supplied. Do not give vent to feelings of satiety or ennui; 
 your future should be bright—no dangers threaten, and 
 many and important duties await you in life. God has so 
 constituted us, that happiness alone springs from the faith¬ 
 ful discharge of these. Every earthly resource fails to bring 
 contentment, unless accompanied by an active, trusting faith 
 in God, and hope of blessedness in heaven. Wealth, beauty, 
 genius are as naught; and fame, that hollow, gilded bauble, 
 brings not the promised delight, and an aching void remains 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 149 
 
 in the embittered heart. One of our most talented authors, 
 now seated on the pinnacle of fame, assures us that 
 
 ‘ The Sea of Ambition is tempest tost, 
 
 And your hopes may vanish like foam.’ 
 
 ‘The Sun of Fame but gilds the name, 
 
 The heart ne’er felt its ray.’ 
 
 Pardon me if I have ventured too far, or wounded you* 
 feelings : it was not my intention, and I have spoken half 
 unconsciously. ” 
 
 “ Thank you, Miss Irving, for your kind words of com* 
 fort and advice. Fear not that ambition will lure me : I 
 know its hollow, bitter wages, and cannot be deceived. 
 Yet there is a lonely feeling in my heart which I cannot 
 dispel at will. Still my plans for the future are sufficiently 
 active to interest me ; and I doubt not that a year hence I 
 shall feel quite differently. If I could always have your 
 counsel and sympathy, I should fear nothing. 5 ’ 
 
 “ In seasons of trial—in the hours of gloom and despond¬ 
 ency—appeal to your sister for comfort. Oh ! she is far 
 more capable of advising and cheering than I, who only 
 echo her sentiments.” Mary pressed her hand to her side, 
 and leaning back, closed her eyes, as if longing for rest. 
 
 “ I have drawn you on to converse more than was proper 
 —forgive my thoughtlessness ; and, if it would not be im¬ 
 possible, sleep, and be at rest.” He carefully arranged her 
 shawls, and as she lay a long while with closed eyes, he 
 thought her sleeping, but turning, after a time, was sur¬ 
 prised to perceive her gazing earnestly out on the beautiful 
 country through which they now rode. 
 
£NEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 s< Alas ! how light a cause may move 
 Dissensions between hearts that love ! 
 
 Hearts that the world in vain had tried, 
 
 And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
 
 That stood the storm when waves were rough, 
 
 Yet in the sunny hour, fall off, 
 
 Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
 
 When heaven was all tranquillity! ” 
 
 Moore. 
 
 “ Peace and quiet and rest for you at last! ” cried Dr. Bry- 
 ant, as they drove into the village of Washington, and, by 
 dint of much trouble and exertion, procured a small and 
 comfortless house. But a bright fire soon blazed in the 
 broad, deep, old-fashioned chimney—the windows and doors 
 closed—their small stock of furniture and provisions un¬ 
 packed, and a couch prepared for Mary, now far too feeble 
 to sit up. The members of the safe and happy party gath¬ 
 ered about the hearth, and discussed hopefully their future 
 prospects. Dr. Bryant raised his eyes to the somewhat in¬ 
 secure roof, through which the light of day occasionally 
 stole in, and exclaimed: 
 
 * And doth a roof above me close ? * ” 
 
 “ Not such a one as greeted Mazeppa on regaining his 
 senses, Frank; rather insecure, *tis true, yet somewhat bet* 
 ter than the canvas covering for which we have been so 
 grateful of late.” 
 
 Dr. Bryant leaned his elbow on the mantel-piece, and fell 
 into a fit of musing, not unusual to him since leaving San 
 Antonio. The servant disturbed his reverie by requesting 
 room for her cooking utensils. He raised his head as she 
 spoke, and then, as if utterly unconscious, dropped it again, 
 without reply. 
 
 “ A cigar for your thoughts, Bryant! ” said Mr. Stewart, 
 and linking his arm in that of his friend they turned away- 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 151 
 
 Florence approached her cousin, and bending over the 
 wasted form, asked if she were not already better. 
 
 Mary lifted her arms to her cousin’s neck, and for a mo¬ 
 ment strove to press her to her heart, but strength had failed 
 rapidly of late, and they sank wearily by her side. Florence 
 sat down and took both hands between hers. 
 
 “ Tell me, dear, if you are in pain ? ” 
 
 “ No, Florry, I do not suffer much now; I am at present 
 free from ail pain. I have not had an opportunity of talk¬ 
 ing with you for some time. Florry, tell me, are you very 
 happy? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Mary, I am very happy—happier than I ever was 
 before ; and far more so than I deserve. Oh 1 Mary, how 
 miserable I have been ; and it is by contrast that the tran¬ 
 sition is so delightful. I doubted the goodness and mercy 
 of God ; and, in the bitterness of my heart, I asked why I 
 had been created for so much suffering. Oh, Mary ! my 
 pure-hearted, angel cousin, how much of my present happi¬ 
 ness I owe to you. Suppose you had suffered me to wan¬ 
 der on in the maze of darkness. At this moment I should . 
 have been a desolate, deluded, miserable nun ; clinging to 
 a religion which, instead of Bible truths, filled the anxious, 
 aching heart with monkish legends of unattested miracles, 
 and in place of the pure worship of God, gives us mum¬ 
 meries nearer akin to pagan rites ! I thank God that I am 
 released from my thraldom. I see now the tissue of false¬ 
 hood so plausible in which all things were wrapped. Black¬ 
 ness and deceit in the garb of truth and purity ! And it is 
 horrible, to think that he who so led me astray claims to be 
 my brother 1 Mary, Mary, how can I tell Mr. Stewart this ? 
 —tell him that I have wandered from the true faith—that I 
 have knelt in confession to him who cursed our common 
 father 1 He will despise me for my weakness: for only 
 yesterday he said he first loved me for my clear insight into 
 right and wrong, and my scorn of deceit and hypocrisy ! 
 Yet I deceived you; at least, tacitly—you who have ever 
 loved me so truly, you who have saved me at last, and 
 pointed out the road to heaven. Mary, forgive me! I 
 never asked pardon of any on earth before, but I wronged 
 you, good and gentle though you always were. Forgive 
 me, oh, my cousin ! 99 
 
*52 
 
 rNEZ ; A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 Mary clasped Florence’s hands in hers, and though too 
 feeble to speak very audibly, replied : 
 
 “ Florry, think not of the past; it has been very painful 
 to us both, yet I thank God that you are right at last. You 
 know how I love you: I would give every treasure of earth 
 to contribute to your happiness; and now that you are so 
 blest, listen to my counsel. Florry, there is a cloud no big¬ 
 ger than a man’s hand resting low on the horizon of your 
 happiness—be warned in time. You know Mr. Stewart’s 
 firm, unwavering principals of Protestantiam ; you know, too 
 the aversiom with which he regards the priests of Rome; it 
 may be a hard task now, but it will be tenfold more difficult 
 a year hence. Go to him at once, tell him you were mis¬ 
 guided and deceived, and reveal every circumstance con¬ 
 nected with that unhappy period. He will love you more 
 for your candor. Florry, you turn pale, as though unequal 
 to the task. Oh, my cousin, you prize his love more than 
 truth; but the time will come when he will prize truth more 
 than your love ! Florry, let me beg you tell him all, and at 
 once.” She sank back, as if exhausted by her effort in 
 speaking so long, yet firmly retained Florence’s hand. 
 
 “ Mary, if I do this, it is at the risk of losing his esteem, 
 which I prize even more than his love. And after all, 1 
 cannot see that truth or duty requires this humiliating con¬ 
 fession. Should he ever question me, I should scorn to de¬ 
 ceive him, and at once should tell him all. But he does not 
 suspect it, and /, being no longer in danger or blinded, need 
 not reveal the past.” 
 
 Mournfully Mary regarded her beautiful cousin. 
 
 “ Florry, if you conceal nothing now, he will esteem you 
 more than ever for hazarding his love in the cause of truth. 
 If, in after years, he discovers the past, he will tell you that, 
 silently at least, you deceived him, and reproach you with 
 want of candor and firmness. Oh! there is a fearful risk 
 to run ; he will never place confidence in you again—be 
 warned in time.” 
 
 The entrance of Aunt Lizzy and Mrs. Carlton prevented 
 further conversation, and unclasping Mary’s fingers, Flor¬ 
 ence disengaged her hand and left the room. 
 
 Two days passed in furnishing and arranging their new 
 home, and Mary saw but little of her cousin. As evening 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 153 
 
 closed in again, the invalid watched from her couch the 
 countenance of Mr. Stewart, as he sat earnestly conversing 
 with her aunt. Florence and Mr. and Mrs. Carlton were 
 out making some necessary purchases, and Dr. Bryant had 
 been absent on business of his own since morning. 
 
 “ Florence is too young to marry, or even dream of it, at 
 present, Mr. Stewart; and besides, if I must be candid, I 
 have always entertained different views for her.” 
 
 “ Pardon me, but I believe I scarcely comprehend your 
 meaning. You speak of other views for her ; may I venture 
 to ask the nature of these ? ” 
 
 “ I have never expected her to marry at all, Mr. 
 Stewart.” 
 
 “ And why not, pray ? What can you urge in favor of 
 your wishes ? ” 
 
 “ I had her own words to that effect, scarce a month ago.” 
 
 A proud, happy smile played round his lips, and he re* 
 plied: “ She may have thought so then, but I think her 
 views have changed.” 
 
 “ But for Mary, she would have been the same ; ” and a 
 bitter look passed over her wrinkled face. 
 
 “ Excuse me, if I ask an explanation of your enigmatical 
 language; there is some hidden meaning, I well know.” 
 
 “ Mr. Stewart, your mother and I are old friends, and I 
 wish you well; but all good Catholics love their church 
 above every earthly thing. I should like to see Florence 
 happy, but her eternal good should first be secured ; you 
 are a Protestant, and bitterly opposed to our Holy Church, 
 and I cannot consent to see her marry a heretic, for such 
 you are: she is too far astray already.” 
 
 “ If your niece were herself a Papist, your reason would 
 indeed be a cogent one ; but, under existing circumstances, 
 I am puzzled to understand you.” 
 
 “ Were it not for Mary’s influence, Florence would even 
 now rest in the bosom of our Holy Church. She has done 
 her cousin a grievous wrong; may God and the blessed 
 Virgin forgive her ! ” 
 
 Mary groaned in spirit, as she marked the stern glance of 
 his eagle eye, and feebly raising herself, she said: “ Mr. 
 Stewart, will you take this seat beside the sofa ? I wish to 
 speak with you.” 
 
*54 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 Aunt Lizzy left the room hurriedly, as though she had 
 already said too much, and silently he complied with Mary’s 
 request. 
 
 “ You are pained and perplexed at what my aunt has just 
 said ; allow me to explain what may seem a great mystery. 
 You are not aware that my uncle died a Papist. Weakened 
 in body and mind by disease, he was sought and influenced 
 in secret, when I little dreamed of such a change. On his 
 death-bed he embraced the Romish faith, and, as I have 
 -since learned, exacted from Florry a promise to abide by the 
 advice of his priest, in spiritual as well as temporal matters. 
 He expired in the act of taking the sacrament, and our deso¬ 
 lation of heart can be better imagined than described—left 
 so utterly alone and unprotected, far from our relatives and 
 the friends of our youth. I now marked a change in Florry, 
 though at a loss to account for it. An influence, secret as 
 that exerted on her lost parent, was likewise successful and, 
 to my grief and astonishment, I found that she too had em¬ 
 braced papacy.” 
 
 The door opened and Florence entered. She started on 
 seeing her lover, but advanced to them much as usual. He 
 raised his head, and cold and stern was the glance he bent 
 on her beautiful face. She stood beside him, and rising, he 
 placed a chair for her in perfect silence. Mary’s heart 
 ached, as she noted the marble paleness which overspread 
 her cousin’s cheek. Mr. Stewart folded his arms across his 
 chest, and said in a low, stern, yet mournful tone: 
 
 “ Florence, I could not have believed that you would have 
 deceived me, as you have silently done.” 
 
 Mournfully Florence looked for a moment on Mary’s face, 
 yet there was no reproach in her glance; it seemed but to 
 say—“ You have wakened me from my dream of happiness.” 
 
 She lifted proudly her head, and fixed her dark eye full on 
 her lover. 
 
 “ Explain yourself, Mr. Stewart; I have a right to know 
 with what I am charged, though I almost scorn to refute 
 that of deceit.” 
 
 “ Not a week since, Florence, you heard me avow my dis¬ 
 like of the tenets and practises of the Romish Church. I 
 said then, as now, that no strong-minded, intelligent woman 
 of the present age could consult the page of history and 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 I 55 
 
 then say that she conscientiously believed its doctrines to be 
 pure and scriptural, or its practises in accordance with the 
 teachings of our Saviour. You tacitly concurred in my 
 opinions. Florence, did you tell me you had once held those 
 doctrines in reverence ? Nay, that even now you lean to 
 papacy ? ” Stern was his tone, and cold and slightly con¬ 
 temptuous his glance. 
 
 “ A bitter, scornful smile wreathed the lips of his betrothed. 
 “ I acknowledge neither the authority of questioning, nor 
 allow the privilege of any on earth to impugn my motives or 
 my actions. Had I felt it incumbent on me to acquaint 
 you with every circumstance of my past life, I should un¬ 
 doubtedly have done so, when you offered me your hand. 
 I felt no obligation to that effect, and consequently consulted 
 my own inclinations. If, for & moment, you had doubted 
 me, or asked an explanation of the past, I should have 
 scorned to dissemble with you ; and now that the subject is 
 broached you shall have the particulars, which, I assure you, 
 have kept well, though, as you suppose, sometime withheld. 
 I have been a member of the Church of Rome:.I have 
 prayed to saints and the Virgin, counted beads and used 
 holy water, and have knelt in confession to a priest of papal 
 Rome. I did all this, thinking, for a time, my salvation 
 dependent on it. You know all now.” 
 
 Mr. Stewart regarded her sadly as she uttered these words, 
 and his stern tone softened as he noticed her bloodless cheek 
 and quivering lip. 
 
 “ Florence, it is not your former belief or practise that 
 gives me this pain, and saddens our future. If you were at 
 this moment a professor of the Romish faith, I would still 
 cherish and trust you: I should strive to convince you of 
 your error—to point out the fallacy of your hopes. When 
 I recall the circumstances by which you were surrounded, 
 and the influences exerted, I scarcely wonder that, for a time, 
 you lent your credence and support. But, Florence, full well 
 you know that this is not what pains me. It is the conscious¬ 
 ness that you have kept me in ignorance of what your own 
 heart told you would show your momentary weakness, and 
 led me to suppose you entertained a belief at variance with 
 your practise. You have feared my displeasure more than 
 the disregard of truth and candor. Florences Florence! 
 
156 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 knowing how well I loved you, and what implicit confidence 
 I reposed in you, how could you do this ? ” 
 
 “ Again, Mr. Stewart, I repeat that I perceive no culpability 
 in my conduct. Had I felt it my duty, your love or indif¬ 
 ference would not have weighed an atom in my decision to 
 act according to my sense of right and wrong/’ 
 
 He turned from her, and paced to and fro before the fire, 
 Florence would have left the room, but Mary clasped her 
 dress, and detained her. 
 
 “ Mr. Stewart, you have been too harsh and hasty in your 
 decision, and too severe in your remarks. Florry has not 
 forfeited your love, though she acted imprudently. Ask 
 your own heart whether you would be willing to expose to 
 her eye your every foible and weakness. For you, like all 
 God’s creatures, have faults of your own. Is there nothing 
 you have left untold relative to your past ? Oh I if you 
 knew how deep and unutterable has been her love, even when 
 she never again expected to meet you, you would forget this 
 momentary weakness—a fault committed from the very in¬ 
 tensity of her love, and fear lest she should sink in your 
 estimation/’ 
 
 “ Mary, if she had said, Dudley, I have not always felt 
 as now, and my mind was darkened for a time, I should 
 have loved her, if possible, more than before, for her noble 
 candor. My own heart would have told me, This is one in 
 whom you may eternally trust, for she risked the forfeiture 
 of your love in order that truth might be unsullied. How 
 can I confide in one who values the esteem of man more 
 than the approval of her own conscience ? You have said 
 her love was a palliation. No, you are wrong; it is an 
 aggravation of her fault. She should have loved me too 
 well to suffer me to discover by chance what should have 
 been disclosed in confidence. Mary, her love is not greater 
 than mine. None know how I have cherished her memory—- 
 how I have kept her loved image in my heart during our 
 long separation. I would give every earthly joy or posses¬ 
 sion to retain her affection, for it is dearer to me than every¬ 
 thing beside, save truth, candor, and honesty. I have noth¬ 
 ing to conceal from her; I would willingly bare my secret 
 soul to her scrutiny. There is nothing I should wish to 
 keep back, unless it be the pain of this hour/’ 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 157 
 
 He paused by her side, and looked tenderly on the pale, 
 yet lovely face of Florence. 
 
 “ Mr. Stewart, shall one fault forever destroy your con¬ 
 fidence in Florry, when she has declared that had she thought 
 it incumbent on her to speak of these things—if she had 
 felt as you do, she asserts that nothing could have prevented 
 her revealing every circumstance.” 
 
 “ Mary, I fear her code of morality is somewhat too lax; 
 and the fact that she acknowledges no fault is far more 
 painful than any other circumstance.” 
 
 “ Mary, I have omitted one thing which I wish him to 
 know. I neglected to inform you, that the priest to whom 
 I confessed is my half-brother ! I have now told you all; 
 and thinking as you do, it is better that in future we forget 
 the past and be as strangers to each other. That I have 
 loved you fervently, I can never forget—neither your as¬ 
 sertion that I am unworthy of your confidence.” 
 
 She disengaged her dress from Mary’s clasp, and turned 
 toward the door. Mr. Stewart caught her hand, and firmly 
 held it. She struggled not to release herself, but lifted her 
 dark eyes to his, and calmly met his earnest glance. 
 
 “ Florence ! ” 
 
 There was a mournful tenderness in the deep tone. Her 
 lip quivered, still her eyes fell not beneath his, piercing as 
 an eagle’s. 
 
 “ Mr Stewart, you have wronged her; you have been too 
 severe.” And Mary clasped his hand tightly, and looked 
 up appealingly. He withdrew his hand. 
 
 “ Florence, this is a bitter, bitter hour to me. Yet I may 
 have judged too harshly: we will forget the past, and, in 
 future, let no such cloud come between us.” 
 
 “ Not so, Mr. Stewart: if I am unworthy, how can you 
 expect confidence from me ? Think you I will change the 
 code which you just now pronounced too lax ? Oh 1 you 
 know not what you have done. It is no light thing to tell 
 a woman of my nature she is unworthy of the love she prized 
 above every earthly thing.! ” Her voice, despite her efforts, 
 faltered. 
 
 “ Florence, I have been too severe in my language, and 
 you too proud and haughty. Full well we know that with¬ 
 out the love of each other life would be joyless to both* 
 
INEZ: A TaLE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 * 5 ^ 
 
 Ours is not a common love; and again I say, let us forget 
 the past, while, in future, need I ask you to keep nothing 
 from me ? ” 
 
 He drew her to him as he spoke, and passing his arm 
 round her, pressed her to his heart. A long time Florence 
 hid her head on his shoulder, as if struggling with her 
 emotion, and then a heavy sob relieved her troubled heart. 
 Closer he clasped her to him, and, laying his cheek on hers, 
 murmured : 
 
 “ My own darling Florence, forgive me, if I misjudged 
 you ; tell me that you will not remember my words—that 
 this hour shall be to us a painful dream.” 
 
 She withdrew from his embrace, and, lifting her head, 
 replied : 
 
 “ I was wrong to doubt your love, or believe that you 
 would think long of my weakness; but I am innocent of the 
 charge of dissimulation, and never let us recur to the past.” 
 
 She held out her hand, and clasping it in his, Mr. Stewart 
 led her away. 
 
 An hour later Mary lay with closed eyes, too weary, from 
 overexcitement, even to look about her. All had left the 
 room, and a dim light from the hearth just faintly lighted 
 the large, comfortless apartment. With noiseless step Dr. 
 Bryant entered, and seating himself in the vacant chair, 
 near Mary’s sofa, bent forward that he might look on the 
 wan face of the sufferer. His heart ached as he noted the 
 painful alteration of the last week, and gently and softly he 
 took one of the thin white hands between his own. It was 
 cold and damp, and, while he pressed it, the dark blue eyes 
 rested earnestly on his face. 
 
 “ I hoped you were sleeping, did I wake you ? ” and he 
 laid the hand back, as she strove to withdraw it. 
 
 “ No, I have not slept since morning.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I am troubled at your constant suffering ; is there 
 anything I can do for you ? ” 
 
 “ No, thank you, Doctor, I wish nothing.” 
 
 “ All my arrangements are completed, and to-morrow I 
 return to your home. Can I deliver any message, or exe¬ 
 cute any commission ? ” 
 
 For a moment Mary closed her eyes, then replied in a low 
 voice: 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 159 
 
 “ If you should see Inez, tell her to remember my gift at 
 parting, and thank her, in my name, for her many, many 
 kindnesses.” She paused, as if gathering courage to say 
 something more. 
 
 “ And tell her, too, that ere many hours I shall be at rest. 
 Tell her I have no fear, nay more, that I have great hope, 
 and that heaven is opening for me. Let her prepare to join 
 me, where there is no sorrow nor parting. ” 
 
 There was a silence, as if each were communing with 
 their own hearts. 
 
 “ You go to-morrow, Dr. Bryant ? Then you will not 
 stay to see me die ? I am failing fast, and when you re¬ 
 turn, I shall have gone to that bourne whence no traveler 
 comes back to tell the tale. Let me thank you now, for your 
 unvarying kindness; many have been your services, and a 
 brother’s care has ever followed me. Thank you; I appre¬ 
 ciate your kindness, and earnest and heartfelt is my prayer 
 that you may be very happy and blest on earth ; and when 
 you, too, come to die, may your end be like mine—free 
 from all fear, and may hope and joy attend your last 
 moments! ” 
 
 Her breathing grew short, and large drops stood on her 
 pure beautiful brow. 
 
 He had bent his head upon his bosom while she spoke, 
 but now he raised it, and, taking her hand, clasped it 
 warmly. 
 
 “ Mary, Mary, if you knew what torture you inflicted, you 
 Would spare me this ! ” 
 
 It was the first time he had called her Mary, and her 
 pale lip quivered. 
 
 “ Forgive me, if I cause you pain! ” 
 
 Bending forward, he continued, in a tone of touching sad¬ 
 ness—“ I had determined, Mary, to keep my grief locked 
 in my own heart, and never to let words of love pass my 
 lips. But the thought of parting with you forever is more 
 than I can bear. Oh ! Mary, have you not seen for weeks 
 and months how I have loved you ? Long ago, when first 
 we met, a deep, unutterable love stole into my heart. I 
 fancied for a time that you returned it, till the evening we 
 met at my sister’s, and you spoke with such indifference of 
 leaving me behind. I saw then I had flattered myself 
 
i6o 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 falsely; that you entertained none save friendly feelings to¬ 
 ward me. Still, I thought in time you might learn to re¬ 
 gard me with warmer sentiments. So I hoped on till the 
 evening of our last ride, when your agitation led me to sup¬ 
 pose you loved another. I saw you meet Mr. Stewart, and 
 was confirmed in my supposition. I gave up all hope of 
 ever winning your affection in return. Now I see my error 
 in believing for a moment that you felt otherwise to him 
 than as a brother, as the betrothed of your cousin. I know 
 that you have never loved him, and pardon my error. 
 When I sought you just now, it was to say good-by, and in 
 absence and varied and exciting pursuits to shut out from 
 my heart the memory of my hopes and fears. Mary, your 
 words fill me with inexpressible anguish ! Oh, you cannot 
 know how blank and dreary earth will seem when you are 
 gone! I shall have no hope, no incitement, no joy ! ” 
 
 As she listened to this confession, which a month before 
 would have brought the glow to her cheek and sparkle to 
 her eye, she felt that it came too late; still a perfect joy 
 stole into her heart. She turned her face toward him, and 
 gently said: 
 
 “ I am dying; and, feeling as I do, that few hours are 
 allotted me, I shall not hesitate to speak freely and candidly. 
 Some might think me deviating from the delicacy of my 
 sex; but, under the circumstances, I feel that I am not. 
 I have loved you long, and to know that my love is returned, 
 is a source of deep and unutterable joy to me. You were 
 indeed wrong to suppose I ever regarded Mr. Stewart other¬ 
 wise than as Florry’s future husband. I have never loved 
 but one.” 
 
 “ Mary, can it be possible that you have loved me, when 
 I fancied, of late, that indifference, and even dislike, nes¬ 
 tled in your heart ? We shall yet be happy ! I thank God 
 that we shall be so blest! ” And he pressed the thin hand 
 to his lips. 
 
 “ Do not deceive yourself. Your confession has come too 
 late. I can never be yours, for the hand of death is already 
 laid upon me, and my spirit will wing its way, ere long, 
 home to God. Now that we understand each other, and 
 while I yet live, let us be as calm, as happy as the circum¬ 
 stances allow. It may seem hard that I should be taken 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 161 
 
 when the future appears so bright, but I do not repine, 
 neither must you. God, ever good and merciful, sees that 
 it is best I should go, and we will not embitter the few hours 
 left us by vain regrets.” Too feeble to speak more, she 
 closed her eyes, while her breathing grew painfully short. 
 
 Dr Bryant bent forward, and gently lifting her head, sup¬ 
 ported her with his strong arm, and stroked off from her 
 beautiful brow the clustering hair. A long time she lay 
 motionless, with closed eyes, and bending his head, he 
 pressed a long kiss on the delicately-chiseled lips. 
 
 “ O God ! spare me my gentle angel Mary,” he murmured, 
 as looking on the wan, yet lovely face, he felt that to yield 
 her up was more than he could bear. 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Carlton entered : he held out his 
 hand, and drawing her to his side, said, in a deep, tender tone : 
 
 “ She is mine now, sister ; thank God, that at last I have 
 won her, and pray with me that she may be spared to us 
 both.” 
 
 Fervently she pressed his hand, and a tear rolled down and 
 dropped upon it, as she bent down to kiss the sufferer. 
 Gently he put her back. 
 
 “ She is wearied, and just fallen asleep ; do not wake 
 her.” 
 
 He carefully depressed his arm that she might rest more 
 easily. Mrs. Carlton seated herself beside her brother, and 
 whispered: 
 
 “ You will not go to-morrow, Frank ? ” 
 
 “ No, no; I will not leave her a moment. Ellen, does 
 she seem very much thinner since leaving home ? I know 
 she is very pale.” 
 
 “ Yes, Frank; she is fearfully changed within the last 
 week.” 
 
 “ Oh, Ellen ! if she should be taken from me;” and 
 closer he drew his arm, as though fearing some unseen 
 danger. 
 
 “ We must look to Heaven for her restoration, and God 
 
 is good,” answered his sister, turning away to conceal her 
 tears. 
 
162 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Ah ! whence yon glare 
 
 That fires the arch of heaven ?—that dark red smoke 
 
 Blotting the silver moon ?. 
 
 Hark to that roar whose swift and deafening peals, 
 
 In countless echoes, through the mountains ring, 
 Startling pale midnight on her starry throne ! 
 
 Loud and more loud, the discord grows, 
 
 Till pale Death shuts the scene, 
 
 And o’er the conqueror and the conquered draws 
 His cold and bloody shroud.” 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 The 6th of March rose dark and lowering, and all nature 
 Wore an aspect meet for the horrors which that day chron¬ 
 icled in the page of history. Toward noon the dense leaden 
 cloud floated off, as though the uncertainty which veiled the 
 future had suddenly been lifted—the crisis had come. Santa 
 Anna and his bloodthirsty horde, rendered more savage by 
 the recollection of the nth December, poured out the vial 
 of their wrath on the doomed town. Oh! San Antonio, 
 thou art too beautiful for strife and discord to mar thy quiet 
 loveliness. Yet the fiery breath of desolating war swept 
 rudely o’er thee, and, alas ! thou wast sorely scathed. 
 
 A second time the ill-fated fortress was fiercely charged. 
 Long it withstood the terrible shock, and the overwhelming 
 thousands that so madly pressed its gray, moldering walls. 
 The sun went down as it were in a sea of blood, its lurid 
 light, gleaming ominously on the pale, damp brows of the 
 doomed garrison. Black clouds rolled up and veiled the 
 heavens in gloom. Night closed prematurely in with fitful 
 gusts, mingling the moans and strife of nature with the roar 
 of artillery. Still the fury of the onset abated not: the 
 Alamo shook to its firm basis. Despairingly the noble band 
 raised their eyes to the blackened sky. “ God help us! ” 
 A howling blast swept by, lost in the deep muttering of the 
 cannonade. Then a deep voice rung clearly out, high above 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 163 
 
 the surrounding din : “ Comrades, we are lost! let us die 
 like brave men ! ” 
 
 The shriek of departing hope was echoed back by the 
 sullen groan of despair. Travis fell, fighting at the entrance. 
 As the hero sank upon the glory floor, there was a pause; 
 friend and foe gazed upon the noble form ! His spirit 
 sprung up to meet his God. 
 
 “ On, comrades ! Travis has fallen ! dearly will we die ! ” 
 
 One hundred and fifty brave hearts poured out their life¬ 
 blood by his motionless form, struck down like sheep in the 
 slaughter-pen. But seven remained : in despair they gazed 
 on the ruin around, reeling from exhaustion and slipping in 
 gore. There was borne on the midnight air a faint, feeble 
 cry : “ Quarter! quarter ! ” Alas ! brave hearts, the appeal 
 was lost, for an incarnate demon led the thirsty band. With 
 a fiendish yell it was answered back, “ No quarter ! ” and ye 
 seven were stretched beside your fearless, noble Travis. 
 
 Not a living Texan remained. The stiffening forms, 
 grim in death, returned not even a groan to the wild shout 
 of triumph that rung so mockingly though the deserted 
 chambers of the slaughter-house. Victory declared for the 
 wily tyrant—the black-hearted Santa Anna. Complete was 
 the desolation which reigned around : there was none to 
 oppose—no not one; and the Alamo was his again 1 Oh, 
 Death! thou art insatiate 1 Hundreds had yielded to thy 
 call, and followed the beckoning of thy relentless hand : and 
 still another must swell thy specter host, and join the 
 shadowy band of the Spirit World ! 
 
 For three days Don Garcia lay motionless on his couch of 
 pain; even utterance was denied him, for paralysis had 
 stretched forth her numb, stiffening finger, and touched him, 
 even while he stood in the busy haunts of men. All day the 
 din of battle had sounded in his ear ; Inez from time to 
 time stole from his side, and looked out toward the fortress, 
 dimly seen through the sulphurous cloud of smoke and the 
 blaze of artillery. 
 
 In the silent watches of the night, the shout of “ Victory 1 99 
 was borne on by the blast. “ My father, the Alamo is taken 
 —Santa Anna has conquered! ” He struggled fearfully, a 
 gurgling sound alone passed his lips, and he fell back lifeless 
 on his pillow. 
 
164 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 Calmly the girl bent down and closed the eyes, covered 
 decently the convulsed features, and then, shrouding her 
 face with the mantilla, stept forth for assistance. The next 
 day saw the Don borne to his last resting-place. In accord¬ 
 ance with the custom of the nation, no female followed the 
 bier. It was borne by two men, and followed by some 
 dozen children, and perhaps as many aged Mexicans. While 
 just in advance strode the Padre, repeating the Latin serv¬ 
 ice for the dead, and attended by four boys—two bearing 
 censers, one a cross, and the other holy water. With inde¬ 
 cent haste they pressed forward, passing through the church, 
 and resting the bier for a moment on the altar, while an Ave 
 Maria was repeated. At a sign from the Padre, the pro¬ 
 cession moved on to the churchyard, and, without further 
 ceremony, the body deposited in consecrated ground. Holy 
 water was sprinkled profusedly around, and then all departed, 
 leaving him to sleep undisturbed the last dreamless sleep. 
 
 Night found Inez sitting alone by her dreary, deserted 
 hearth. Father, mother, sister, cousin, all had passed on 
 before her; and the last of her house, she mused in her 
 lonely home. A faint fire flickering on the hearth just re¬ 
 vealed the form and face of the Mexican maiden. Her 
 mantilla lay on the floor beside her, the black hair, thick 
 and straight, hung to the waist, her brilliant, piercing eyes 
 were bent vacantly on the fire, her dark cheek perfectly 
 colorless as clay. 
 
 “ Who is there to care for Inez now ? Who will smooth 
 my pillow, and close my eyes, and lay me to rest ? ” 
 
 Her desolation of heart conquered; her head sunk upon 
 her bosom, and a deep, bitter groan burst from her lips. 
 Slowly she rocked herself to and fro in the loneliness of her 
 spirit. 
 
 She had not loved her father warmly; there was little 
 congeniality between them, and her hasty rejection of Man¬ 
 uel’s suit mutually embittered their intercourse. For Ne- 
 varro, a sort of sisterly feeling was entertained, no warmer 
 affection. Yet she could love intensely. A little sister had 
 waked her tenderness—her heart clung to the gentle child, 
 so unlike herself. She sickened, and in a day went down 
 to the tomb : bitter was the grief of Inez, who felt little for 
 her mother, and soon she too took her place in the church- 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 165 
 
 yard. Dr. Bryant came, and again Inez loved—again she 
 was disappointed ; and now she sat alone in the wide world, 
 without one remaining tie to bind the future. 
 
 The hour of bitterness had come. She looked upon that 
 dreary future and her utter desolation, and no gleam of hope 
 stole to her darkened soul. An almost vacant expression 
 settled on the dark countenance of the once beautiful maiden. 
 Softly the door was pushed ajar, and the form of the Padre 
 stood within. By instinct she seemed aware of his entrance, 
 for raising her bowed head, the black sparkling eyes flashed, 
 and the broad brow wrinkled into a frown dark as night. 
 He approached her, and they stood face to face upon the 
 hearth. 
 
 “ What do you here, in the house of death, Mio Padre ? ” 
 “ Inez, my queen of beauty, I have come to take the prize 
 for which I toiled. There are none now between us, no, not 
 one. You need not draw back so proudly.” 
 
 A bitter, contemptuous laugh rung out on the night air, 
 and Inez folded her arms upon her bosom. 
 
 “ Truly, Padre, we are well mated ! You have opposed 
 me, and I thwarted you ! I am your equal: think you to 
 intimidate me with threats ? You should know better! ” 
 
 “ Inez, listen ! I leave this place before many days. My 
 work is finished here; there are none to oppose, and I go 
 elsewhere. To Mexico first, and then to Italy. You must 
 go with me, my proud beauty! I cannot leave you here I ” 
 Again Inez laughed her mocking laugh. “ Go with you, 
 Mio Padre! No, no ; I must decline the honor. The hour 
 of settlement has come ! Alphonso Mazzolin, for long you 
 have plotted my destruction ; and one by one removed every 
 obstacle in your way, and smoothed my path to ruin ! I have 
 known this—silently I have watched you maneuver. You 
 counseled Manuel; you flattered him, encouraged his hasty 
 course and overbearing manner, and caused the rupture 
 between us. You knew mv nature, and foresaw the result. 
 You thought to secure me within the walls of yonder gloomy 
 convent, and hoped that in time my broad lands would bless 
 and enrich your holy church ! But, Padre, I did not fancy 
 the home prepared for me in San Jose. I promised 1 to 
 comply with my father's wish, and fulfil the engagement, 
 much to your surprise and chagrin. Padre, I would have 
 
i66 
 
 ANEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 married Manuel, sooner than second your plans. I, too, 
 foresaw the tempest that even now howls over us. It was 
 my only hope, and I said, who may predict the chances of 
 war ? The Americans may yet number the most here, and 
 then your power will be at an end. Seemingly I was pas* 
 sive, but you are thwarted. We stand face to face, and I 
 scorn you, incarnate devil as you are. How dared you do 
 as you have done ? Mine eyes are opened—you can no 
 longer deceive me with your lying legends and the marvel¬ 
 ous traditions of your country. I tell you, I hate you with 
 an everlasting hate. You have led me far from God, if there 
 be a God, and may my curse follow you, even to your 
 grave ! ” 
 
 Fiercely the glowing face was bent upon him. Hate, 
 scorn, bitterness of heart, and utter desolation mingled 
 strangely in the withering glance. The Padre seized her 
 arm, and hoarsely exclaimed : 
 
 “ We know each other now: no matter, you cannot es¬ 
 cape me: if force be necessary to take you hence, I can 
 command it at any moment. You know full well my word 
 is law; resist not, nor further rouse me—there is no help for 
 you save in submission. I will not leave you.” 
 
 il Ere I follow you hence, yonder river shall close over my 
 body. I tell you now I will not accompany you.” 
 
 He stepped to the door and whistled faintly. The next 
 moment a black-browed soldier stood before them. 
 
 “ Herrara, she has broken her promise—she refuses to 
 enter a convent, and she defies me, and scorns our holy 
 church. I somehow expected this; and I charge you now, 
 suffer her not to pass the threshold of her own room; guard 
 well the door, there is no window. See you, Inez, you can¬ 
 not escape me ? ” He whispered in the intruder’s ear, and, 
 promising to come again the ensuing day, left the house, 
 carefully closing the door after him. Lighting his cigarrita, 
 Herrara requested Inez to seek her own apartment, that he 
 might secure the door outside, and then return to the fire. 
 Without a word she ascended the stairs to her own room. A 
 chain was passed about the door, and then the retreating 
 steps of the soldier died away. 
 
 What should she do ? Inez sat down to collect her 
 thoughts, and looked round the apartment The wallas 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. i6j 
 
 were of solid rock, and in one corner was a small grating 
 of four iron bars, which admitted light and air, but pre« 
 eluded all hope of escape in that quarter. The door was 
 secured, and no means of egress presented itself. Her eye 
 rested on her lamp, and a smile lit Tip the dark countenance 
 of the prisoner. She threw herself on her bed: slowly the 
 hours rolled—midnight came at last. She rose and listened 
 —no stir, no sound of life reached her: she glanced at her 
 lamp, now dim—the light was waning, and softly stepping 
 across the room, she drew from a basket several bundles oi 
 paper. These she tore in pieces, and placing them beside 
 the door, drew the lamp near. Inez carefully twisted up 
 her long black hair, and placed on her head a broad som¬ 
 brero, which the Don had worn of late ; then taking his 
 Mexican blanket, she slipped her head through the opening, 
 and suffered it to fall to her feet. Something seemed for* 
 gotten, and after some little search, she found a small cotton 
 bag, into which she dropped a polonce, then secured it be¬ 
 neath the blanket. Queerly enough she looked, thus ac¬ 
 coutered ; but apparently the oddity of her appearance never 
 once crossed her mind, for, stepping across the floor, she 
 held the pieces of paper over the lamp till ignited, then 
 quickly thrust them one by one between the small crack or 
 chink in the center of the door. It was of wood, old and 
 dry, and caught like tinder. She watched it burn; the door 
 was narrow, and the devouring element soon consumed all 
 save the top and bottom pieces which extended across. 
 These quivered as their support crumbled beneath them, 
 and soon would fall with a crash. She watched her time, 
 and gathering dress and blanket closely about her, sprang 
 through, and though almost suffocated with smoke, hurried 
 down to a small door at the rear of the house. ‘ She stood 
 without and listened : Inez fancied she heard the crackling 
 of the fire, yet there was no time to lose. Just before her 
 sat a large stone vessel, containing the soaking corn for the 
 morning tortillos; drawing forth her bag, she filled it with 
 the swollen grain, and hastened on to where a small black 
 horse was lassoed, having his hay scattered on the ground 
 beside him. It was but the work of a moment to throw on 
 and fasten her father’s saddle, which hung on a neighboring 
 -'■'•tr^e, and loosing the hair lariat, she patted the pony she 
 
168 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 had often ridden on St.-’s day, and sprang into the seat. 
 
 Slowly she passed through the narrow yard, and entered the 
 street; pausing, she glanced up at her window, and per¬ 
 ceived through the grating the blaze and smoke now filling 
 the vacant room. Distinctly the clank of the chain fell on 
 her ear, and turning into an alley, she galloped away. 
 
 Inez knew it would be impossible to pass over the bridge, 
 and down the Alameda without detection, for seven hundred 
 Mexican troops were stationed on the outskirts of the town; 
 and, with the celerity of thought, she directed her way in 
 the opposite direction, toward a shallow portion of the river, 
 occasionally used as a ford. Happily the distance was 
 short; and urging her somewhat unwilling horse, she plunged 
 in. The moon rose full and bright as she reached the op¬ 
 posite bank; and pausing a moment, she looked back upon 
 the sleeping town. No sound of life fell on her ear; and 
 avoiding the beaten track, she turned her horse out on the 
 grass, and hastened on toward the east, directing her course 
 so as to pass beyond the Powder-House, which was dimly 
 seen in the distance. At a quick canter it was soon passed, 
 and she pressed on to the Salado, some three miles distant. 
 Full well she knew she would be sought for when morning 
 dawned; and with such speed she almost flew on, that sun¬ 
 rise found her many miles from her home. Inez was fear¬ 
 less, or she would never have dared to undertake what lay 
 before her. Alone, unprotected, in the guise of a man, 
 without possessing his ordinary means of defense, there was 
 much to risk; for Indian depredations were frequent, and 
 she must traverse a wide waste of almost interminable length 
 ere reaching any settlement. 
 
 When the sunbeams played joyously about her Inez 
 stopped to rest, and eating a few grains of her treasured corn, 
 she allowed her horse to graze a short time along the mar¬ 
 gin of a stream, where the grass was tender and abundant; 
 and then remounting, rode on somewhat more leisurely than 
 she had previously done. * 
 
INEZ : A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 169 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 “To die, is landing on some silent shore, 
 
 Where billows never beat nor tempests roar !” 
 
 Garth. 
 
 Since morning, Mary had lain in the deep, dreamless 
 sleep of exhaustion: and now the leafless boughs, which 
 waved to and fro before her window, threw long shadows 
 athwart the wall and across the deserted yard. Evening 
 was creeping slowly on. Over the wan, yet lovely face of 
 the sleeper had come a gradual change—agonizing, yet in¬ 
 describable. It ever appears when Death approaches to 
 claim his victim, and it seems as though the shadow cast by 
 his black pinions. Mary opened her eyes and looked silently 
 on the sad group which clustered around her couch. Mr. 
 Stewart, alone able to command his voice, asked if she was 
 not better, as she had slept so gently. 
 
 “ All is well, Mr. Stewart— I have no pain ; ” and her 
 eye again rested on Florence. Long was the look, and full of 
 deep, unutterable tenderness. Feebly she extended her hand* 
 
 “ Florry I ” 
 
 Her cousin knelt beside her, and buried her face in her 
 hands. Mary laid hers on the bowed head. 
 
 “ Dear Florry, I have little time to stay. Do not sadden 
 this last hour with vain regrets. Ah ! my cousin, I thank 
 God that you will be so happy. When you miss me from 
 your side you will feel lonely enough, and your heart will 
 ache for me again. Yet, though bodily absent, I shall not 
 be far away, Florry. My spirit will hover round the loved 
 ones I leave on earth. Your dead, forming an angel-guard, 
 will ever linger about your earthly path, and in the hour 
 like this will bear up your spirit to God. Think not of me 
 as resting in the silent grave. I shall not be there, but 
 ever near you. I do not say, try to forget me, and fix your 
 thoughts on other things. Oh ! I beg you to think of me 
 often, and of our glorious reunion in heaven I Florry, there 
 
170 
 
 WEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 is one thing which will stand between you and me. My 
 dear cousin, conquer your pride, cast away your haughtiness, 
 and learn to lean on God, and walk in accordance with his 
 law. Oh ! who would exchange the hope of a Christian for 
 all that worlds could offer ? One may pass through life, 
 and do without it; but in the hour of death its claim is 
 imperatively urged, and none can go down to the tomb in 
 peace without it. Florry, you said last night it was hard 
 that I should die. I am not merely reconciled, but I am 
 happy ! Earth looks very bright and joyous, and if I might 
 stay, my future is attractive indeed. Yet I know that for 
 some good end I am taken, and what seems to you so hard, 
 is but a blessing in disguise. Oh! then, when you are 
 summoned away, may you feel, as I now do, that the arms 
 of your God are outstretched to receive you.” She held 
 out her hand to Mr. Stewart, who stood beside her: he 
 clasped it in his. 
 
 “ Cherish Florry, and let no shadow come between you. 
 It gives me inexpressible joy to know that when I am gone 
 you will be near to love and to guide her.” 
 
 “ We will comfort and guide each other, dear Mary, and 
 oh! I pray God that we may be enabled to join you in that 
 land of rest to which you are hastening.” He fervently 
 kissed the thin white hand he held, and then gently raised 
 Florence. Mary lifted her arms feebly, and they clasped 
 each other in a long, last embrace. 
 
 “ Mary, my angel cousin, I cannot give you up. Oh! I 
 have never prized you as I ought. Who will love me as 
 you have done ? ” 
 
 “ Hush, Florry! ” whispered the sinking voice of the suf¬ 
 ferer. “ I am very, very happy—kiss me, and say good-by.” 
 
 Gently Dr. Bryant took Florence from her cousin, and 
 then each in turn, Mrs. Carlton and Aunt Lizzy, bent over 
 her ; as the’ latter turned away, Mary took her hand, and 
 drawing her down, murmured : 
 
 “ My dear aunt, forgive what may have pained you in my 
 past life. We have differed on many points, but we both 
 know there is one God. Ah ! aunt, in his kingdom may we 
 soon meet again: think of me often, dear aunt. When I 
 am gone you will be very lonely, but only for a short period 
 are we separated.” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 17a 
 
 Dr. Bryant elevated her pillow that she might rest more 
 easily. She lifted her eyes to his pale face. “ Frank, will 
 you turn the sofa that I may see the sun set once more ? ” 
 
 He moved it to the west window, and drew aside the cur* 
 tain that the golden beams might enter : she could not look 
 out, for the sofa was low, and sitting down beside her, he 
 passed his arm around her, and lifted her head to his 
 bosom. For a time she looked out on the brilliant hues of 
 the setting sun, now just visible above the tree tops. 
 Slowly it sank, then disappeared forever to her vision. 
 Once Dr. Bryant had seen her lips move, as in prayer; now 
 the deep blue eyes were again raised to the loved face bend¬ 
 ing over her. 
 
 “Long ago, I prayed to God that I might fade away 
 gently, and die a painless death. He has granted my pe¬ 
 tition. All things seem very calm and beautiful—earth 
 ne’er looked so like heaven before ; yet how insignificant in 
 comparison with the glories which await me. Frank, if 
 aught could draw me back, and make me loth to leave this 
 world, it would be my love for you. Life would be so 
 bright passed by your side. You know the depth of my 
 love, yet I may not remain. Frank, tell me that you can 
 give me up for a little while. Oh l can you not say, 4 God’s 
 will be done ? ’ ” 
 
 44 Mary, it is a terrible trial to yield you up, when I looked 
 forward so joyously to the future. It is hard to think of 
 the long, long dreary years that are to come, and know that 
 you will not be near me; that I cannot see your face, or 
 hear your loved tones. Oh, Mary, you know not the bitter¬ 
 ness of this hour ; yet I can say God’s will be done, for I 
 have conquered my own heart, but every earthly joy and 
 hope has passed away. To our reunion I must ever look as 
 my only comfort, and I pray God that it may be speedy.” 
 
 He bent his head till his lips restejd on the white brow, 
 now damp in death. Wearily she turned her face toward 
 his; he clasped the wasted form tightly to his heart, and 
 kissed the pale lips ; her fingers clasped his hand gently, 
 and she whispered, “ Good-by 1 ” 
 
 u 
 
 by I 
 
 Again be pressed his lips to hers, and then rested her 
 
 Good-by, my darling Mary !—my own angel one, good- 
 
1J2 jNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 head more easily upon his arm. The eyes closed, and those 
 who stood watching her low, irregular breathing, fancied she 
 slept again. 
 
 One arm was around her, while the other supported the 
 drooping head. Her beautiful brown hair fell over his arm, 
 and left exposed the colorless face. She was wasted, yet 
 beautiful in its perfect peace and joy was the expression 
 which rested on her features. Dr. Bryant, leaning his noble 
 brow on hers, felt her spirit pass away in the last sigh which 
 escaped her lips. Yet he did not lift his head. Cold as 
 marble grew the white fingers which lingered in his, still he 
 clasped her tightly. He sat with closed eyes, communing 
 with his own saddened heart; he was stilling the agony 
 which welled up, and casting forth the bitterness which 
 mingled darkly with his grief, and he said unto his tortured 
 soul: “ Be still! my treasure is laid up in heaven. ” 
 
 He lifted the hair from his arm, and gently drew his hand 
 from hers ; yet, save for the icy coldness of her brow, none 
 would have known that the soul which lent such gentle love¬ 
 liness to the countenance had flown home to God. 
 
 Dr. Bryant pressed a last kiss on the closed eyes and 
 marble brow, softly laid her on her pillow, and left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 “ All things are dark to sorrow,” and the very repose 
 and beauty of nature seem to the aching heart a mockery. 
 No violent bursts of grief had followed Mary’s death, for so 
 peaceful and painless was her end, it was scarce allowable. 
 Yet now that she had been consigned to the quiet grave, a 
 dreary sense of loneliness and desolation crept to the hearts 
 of the saddened group. They stood assembled at the door 
 of their new home, to bid adieu to Dr. Bryant. In vain had 
 been his sister’s tears and entreaties, and Mr. Carlton’s ex¬ 
 postulations. Florence had clasped his hand, and asked 
 in trembling accents, why he left them in their sorrow, and 
 Mr. Stewart implored him not to seek death on the 
 field. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 *73 
 
 Firm in his purpose, naught availed. He stood upon the 
 step ready to depart; his noble face was very pale, and 
 grief had touched with saddening finger every lineament. 
 Yet his tone and mien were calm as usual. 
 
 “ My dear sister,” said he, “ in times like these a man 
 should first regard duty—the laws and precepts of his God ! 
 then the claims of his suffering country ; and v lastly, the ties 
 of nature and the tenderer feelings of his heart. Ellen, think 
 how many have torn themselves from weeping wives and 
 clinging children, and cast their warm love far from them. 
 The call to patriots is imperative. I have now nothing to 
 detain me here : it is my duty to lend my arm toward sup¬ 
 porting our common liberty. Do not fear for me, Ellen, my 
 dear sister ; remember that the strong arm of all-seeing God 
 is ever around us, to guard in time of danger ! ” He clasped 
 her tenderly to his heart, then placed her in her husband’s 
 arms. 
 
 “ Florence, if not again in Texas, I hope we shall soon 
 meet, in more peaceful hours, in Louisiana ; if not, I pray 
 God that you and Stewart may be as happy as I once hoped 
 to be.” He pressed her hand warmly, and returning the 
 long, tight clasp of Mr. Stewart, mounted his horse and rode 
 slowly away. 
 
 “ Mother,” said Elliot, “ Uncle Frank has not taken the 
 right road toward home.” 
 
 “ Hush, Elliot! ” she sadly answered, while her tears 
 gushed anew; “ he has gone by his Mary’s grave.” 
 
 On that hour, spent at the early tomb of the “ loved and 
 lost ” Mary, we will not intrude : it is rendered sacred by its 
 deep, unutterable anguish. 
 
 Nearly a week passed, and Dr. Bryant had hurried on, 
 riding through the long, long nights, and only pausing at times 
 to recruit his jaded steed. He had arrived at within two 
 days’ ride of San Antonio, and too wearied to proceed, 
 stopped as night closed in, and picketing his horse wrapped 
 his cloak about him, and threw himself under a large spread¬ 
 ing oak to rest, and, if possible, to sleep. An hour passed 
 on: still he lay looking up to the brilliant sky above. Per¬ 
 fect quiet reigned around, and he felt soothed inexpress¬ 
 ibly. Overcome with fatigue, sleep stole on, and momen¬ 
 tary oblivion of the past was granted. He was startled from 
 
17* INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 ■"* _/ • 
 
 his slumber by the neighing of his horse ; and rising lightly, 
 drew forth his pistols, cocked one, and turned in the direo 
 tion whence came the sound of approaching hoofs. The 
 neighing was answered by the advancing steed, and soon 
 the figure of both rider and horse was dimly seen ; for the 
 moon was not yet risen, and the pale light of the stars but 
 faintly assisted the vision. 
 
 “ Who comes there ? ” asked Dr. Bryant, throwing off his 
 cloak, and stepping up to the stranger. 
 
 “ A peaceful Mexican, in search of cows, and some twenty 
 sheep which strayed away. I think, from your voice, you 
 are an Americano. I am friendly to your people—you will 
 not molest me, and I will not harm you.” 
 
 “ My friend, I rather doubt your word. These are stormy 
 times for a man to venture out in search of cattle, so far 
 from San Antonio.” 
 
 “ I could tell you a piece of news that would satisfy you 
 that I run less risk than yourself. But, stranger, it’s not 
 civil to doubt a man’s word, and make him an enemy whether 
 he will or not.” 
 
 “ I am willing to receive your proffered proof of sincerity, 
 and hope to find you unlike your fickle nation. Come, tell 
 the news which sanctions this long ramble of yours. These 
 are dark days, and it becomes every man to look well to his 
 own safety, and likewise watch his neighbor’s movements.” 
 
 “ I will do you a kindness, stranger; turn your horse’s 
 head, and let moonrise find you where you drank water at 
 noon. San Antonio is no place for Americans now. Santa 
 Anna has taken the Alamo; and every one of your people 
 lie low. Not one was spared to carry the tale to Austin— 
 no, not one! ” 
 
 Dr. Bryant groaned in spirit, and his extended arm sunk 
 to his side. 
 
 “ Oh God ! hast thou forsaken us ? Surely thou wilt yet 
 listen to the voice of justice and liberty,” he murmured to 
 himself, and there was a pause. 
 
 “ How long since the ill-fated Alamo fell ? ” he inquired. 
 
 “ Five days ago. Hintzilopotchli came down and held his 
 bloody feast, and cut off many brave men.” 
 
 “ By what force was the fortress assaulted ? ” 
 
 “ Seven thousand men, led by the great and victorious 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 175 
 
 ) 
 
 Santa Anna. Not long lasted the strife : we were too many 
 for your people, and the fight was short.” 
 
 “ And was our noble Travis slaughtered with his brave 
 band ? ” 
 
 “ He was too brave to live. Think you he would survive 
 his comrades? No! he fell first, and then all followed.” 
 
 “ Will Santa Anna march to Austin, think you; or, con¬ 
 tent with victory, remain in your town ? ” 
 
 “ Truly you give me credit for few brains and a woman’s 
 tongue. I have told you one true tale, can you expect 
 another from a fickle Mexican ? I tell you now, stranger, 
 push me not too closely, if you would hear what is good for 
 you.” 
 
 “ Your voice sounds strangely familiar; yet I cannot 
 recognize it sufficiently to know with whom I am speaking. 
 If, as you declare, friendly to our people, you will not object 
 to giving your name. Perhaps I have known you in San 
 Antonio.” 
 
 “ We Mexicans can tell a friend across the prairie—but 
 no matter. I am thinking we be strangers, yet I am not 
 ashamed of my name. They call me Antoine Amedo—did 
 
 i rou ever hear of such an 1 hombre ?* My ranche is just be- 
 ow the mission San Jose, and I have large flocks of sheep 
 and cattle.” 
 
 “ Antoine Amedo,” repeated Dr. Bryant, musingly, and 
 striving, through the gloom, to scan his features. “You are 
 right; I do not know you, though your voice is familiar.” 
 
 “ If you have no objection, Senor Americano, I will let 
 my horse picket awhile, and rest myself; for I have ridden 
 many miles since sunrise, and not a blessed ‘ barego * have 
 1 smelled.” 
 
 “ You are at liberty to rest as long as you please: con¬ 
 sult your own inclinations.” And he turned away to his 
 own horse, yet marked that the newcomer dismounted with 
 some difficulty. 
 
 He changed his own picket, that fresh grass might not 
 be wanting; and returning to the tree, leaned against its 
 huge body, and watched the movements of the intruder. 
 They were very slow, as if he were well-nigh spent with 
 overexertion. He took off his broad hat. smoothed his hair, 
 then replaced it; adjusted his heavy blanket more comfort- 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 176 
 
 ably, and drawing forth a sort of wallet, proceeded to sat* 
 isfy the cravings of hunger. He ate but little, and return¬ 
 ing the bag or sack to its hiding-place in the broad girdle 
 which was passed about his waist beneath the blanket, 
 stretched himself on the ground, with not even a straggling 
 bough between him and the deep blue vault of heaven. 
 
 No sound broke the silence, save the cropping of the 
 horses as they grazed near ; and, seeking again his grassy 
 couch, Dr. Bryant closed his eyes, and communed with his 
 own heart. Sleep was now impossible, and he lay so rapt 
 in thought, that time flew on unheeded. The moon was 
 shining brightly now, and every object was distinctly seen. 
 He heard the rustling of leaves and the crush of grass. A 
 moment he opened his eyes, then closed them, and feigned 
 sleep. 
 
 The Mexican had risen, and softly approaching the mo¬ 
 tionless form, knelt on the ground beside him, and listened 
 to his breathing. It was low and regular, as one in quiet 
 slumber. He bent and gazed into the upturned face—not 
 a muscle quivered or a feature moved. Stealthily a hand 
 crept round the collar of the cloak, and lifted a heavy lock 
 of the raven hair. Smoothing it out on the grass, he drew 
 forth a crooked blade, which, in accordance with the cus¬ 
 tom of his countrymen, ever hung in the girdle passed about 
 the waist. It glittered in the moonlight; and with dex¬ 
 terous hand he cut the lock of hair: then, returning the 
 knife to its resting-place, rose, and noiselessly retreating to 
 his former position, some yards distant, threw himself down 
 to sleep. 
 
 Dr. Bryant, fully conscious of every movement, deter¬ 
 mined, if possible, to solve this mystery. His pistols were 
 in readiness, and, had violence been attempted, he would 
 have sprung to his feet and defended himself. He waited 
 awhile, then turned, stretched, yawned, and finally rose 
 up. He drew out his watch, the hand pointed to two. He 
 wound it up, and drawing his cap closer about his ears, for 
 the night was cold, approached his companion and stirred 
 him with his foot. No sound or movement indicated con¬ 
 sciousness ; he stooped and shook him. 
 
 “ Antoine, Antoine, get up my friend: you don’t intend to 
 spend the night here, do you ? 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 177 
 
 Ameda sat upright, and rubbed his eyes with well-feigned 
 sleepiness: “ Well, Senor Americano, what is it—Indians 
 smelling about ? ” 
 
 Dr. Bryant could not repress a smile at the drowsy tone 
 of the ranchero, who scarce five moments before had crept 
 from his side. 
 
 “ Upon my word, you seem a match for the seven sleep¬ 
 ers of old. Why, man, if Indians had stumbled on you by 
 chance, they had slung your scalp on yonder bough. In 
 times like these men should slumber lightly.” 
 
 “ Very true, Senor; yet mine eyes are heavy, for two 
 moons have seen me riding on. But you are up! where¬ 
 fore ? ” 
 
 “ I proceed on my journey, and wakened you to ask ad¬ 
 vice and direction, and request your company, if it be that 
 we take the same route.” 
 
 “Jesu Maria! One might think the man had choice! 
 Why, turn your horse’s head, and rest for naught but grass 
 and water.” 
 
 The Mexican had risen, and in adjusting his blanket, a 
 sudden gust of wind lifted his hat, and it fell to the ground 
 at his feet; he clutched at it convulsively, but it was too 
 late. Dr. Bryant started back in astonishment: 
 
 “ Inez ! ” 
 
 The head sunk on her bosom, and the hair which had 
 been confined at the back of her head, fell in luxuriant 
 masses to her waist. 
 
 “ Fearless, yet unfortunate girl! what has led you to this 
 freak ? ” 
 
 A singular group they presented, standing on the broad 
 and seemingly boundless prairie—the March wind moaning 
 through the old oaks, and rustling the brown grass. The 
 moon shone full upon them; Dr. Bryant, with his large 
 cloak wrapped closely about him, and the black cap drawn 
 over his brow—surprise, reproach, pity, and chagrin strangely 
 blended in his gaze. One arm was folded over the broad 
 chest, the other hung by his side. Inez stood just before 
 him, her beautiful head bent so that the black locks well- 
 nigh concealed her features. Her father’s large variegated 
 blanket hanging loosely about the tall, slender form. At her 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 178 
 
 feet lay the hat, crushed by the extended foot, and quivering 
 in the night wind, her hands tightly clasped. 
 
 “ Inez, you crouch like a guilty being before me! Surely 
 you have done nothing to blush for. Yet stranger step was 
 never taken by a reasonable being. Inez, raise your head, 
 and tell me what induced you to venture in this desolate 
 region, alone, unprotected, and in disguise ? ” 
 
 Inez lifted slowly the once beautiful face, now haggard 
 and pale. Anguish of spirit had left its impress on her 
 dark brow, wrinkled by early care. Mournful was the ex¬ 
 pression of the large dark eyes raised to his face : 
 
 “ Dr. Bryant, I am alone in the wide, wide world—there 
 are none to protect—none to care for me now! My father 
 sleeps by Manuel’s side, in the churchyard, and I am the 
 last of my house. The name of De Garcia, once so proud 
 and honored, will become a byword for desolation and 
 misery 1 I have said cursed was the hour of my birth ! and 
 I now say blessed is the hour of my last sleep! You see 
 me here from necessity, not choice, for all places would be 
 alike to me now; but I have been driven from my lonely 
 hearth—I dared not stay, I flew to this dreary waste for 
 peace—for protection ! There is no rest, no peace for me, 
 Not one is left to whom I can say, guard and keep me from 
 harm ! Alone, friendless, in this wide, bitter world ! ” 
 
 “ Your language is strangely ambiguous, Inez ! Can you 
 not explicitly declare what danger threatens, and believe 
 that all I can do to avert evil will gladly be done ? ” 
 
 “ Dr. Bryant, the Padre is my most inveterate enemy! 
 Is not this sufficient to account for my presence here ? ” 
 
 “ Unfortunate girl! how have you incurred that man’s 
 hatred ? ” 
 
 “ It is a long tale, and needless to repeat: enough, that 
 he plotted my ruin—that the strong, silent walls of a far-off 
 convent was my destination. And why ?—That my flocks 
 and lands might enrich his precious church. You look 
 wonderingly upon me ; strange language, this, I think you 
 say, for a lamb of his flock. How dare you speak so irrev¬ 
 erently of the holy man, consecrated priest of Rome as he 
 is ? Dr. Bryant, I am no Catholic, nor have I ' been since 
 you have known me. It was my policy to appear passive. 
 I attended mass, and sought the confessional, and all the 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 179 
 
 while cursed him in my heart. I watched him, and saved 
 your people from destruction. Would you know how? 1 
 heard whispered promises to meet at dead of night. I 
 followed; I saw the meeting between an emmissary of 
 Santa Anna and my godly Padre. At imminent risk I 
 listened to their plot. You were to be kept in ignorance of 
 the powerful force hurrying on to destroy you. Santa Anna 
 was to burst suddenly upon the town, and, ere you could 
 receive reinforcements, capture the Alamo at a blow. 
 Once in his possession, more than one of your people were 
 to be handed over to the tender mercies of my holy con¬ 
 fessor. I warned you of your danger, and happily you 
 heeded the signs of the time; else you, too, would now 
 molder beneath the walls of the Alamo. His prey escaped 
 him, and with redoubled eagerness he sought to consummate 
 my destruction. I was made a prisoner in my own home, 
 ere the sod settled on my father’s grave! • I fled in the mid¬ 
 night hour, and you see me here! Dr. Bryant, I well-nigh 
 cut short the knotted thread of my life; but one thing saved 
 me, else my body would even now whirl along the channel 
 of the river. When I parted from the blue-eyed, sainted 
 Mary, she gave me this book, and asked me not only to 
 read but follow its teachings. She clasped my hand, and 
 told me to remember God, and the eternity which awaited 
 me, and the judgment of that other, final world. Oh ! if 
 there be a heaven and a purgatory ! a God and a judge! if 
 I sink to perdition, one alone is to blame. He told me he 
 had power to forgive my sins; that the more completely I 
 obeyed him on earth, the more blessed I should be in 
 heaven. Yet I have heard him lie, and seen him set aside 
 the rules of humanity and the laws of God! Mary’s Bible 
 tells me i to keep holy the Sabbath day.’ Yet, from my 
 childhood, I have seen our Priests at mass on Sabbath 
 morning, and at monte and cock-fights on the evening of the 
 same day I And I have seen them take from the widow, as 
 the burial-fee of her husband, the last cow she possessed. 
 I saw these things, and I said, there is no God, or he would 
 not suffer such as these to minister as his chosen servants 
 upon the earth. I said in my heart, purgatory is but a lie 
 made to keep pace with their marvelous legends and frequent 
 miracles \ There is not a purgatory, or they would fear the 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 I So 
 
 retribution in store for them. I had none to teach me 
 aright. I mocked at the thought of religion. I said there 
 is none on the earth—'it is merely a system of gain, and all 
 that constitutes the difference is, that some are by nature 
 more of devils, and others gifted with milder hearts. But I 
 saw Mary—pure angel that she is—I saw her with the sick 
 and the dying: she railed not at our priest, as he at her. 
 She carried her Bible to the bed of death, and told them to 
 look to God for themselves. She bade them leave off saint- 
 worship, and cling to Jesus as their only Mediator. Peace 
 followed her steps, and much good she would have done, 
 but my Padre interfered, peremptorily ordered all good 
 Papists to shun her as they would an incarnate demon, and 
 frightened many into submission with his marvelous tales 
 and threats of purgatory. I said to myself, if there be truth 
 in God and religion, this Mary walketh in the right path, for 
 like an angel of mercy and light she ever seems. She was 
 the hope, the joy, the blessing of all who knew her. Oh ! I 
 will come to you, Mary, and learn of you, and die near, that 
 you may be with me in the hour of rest.” 
 
 Inez sank on the ground, and burying her face in her 
 arms, rocked herself to and fro. Dr. Bryant had listened to 
 her rambling, incoherent language, like one in a dream, till the 
 name of Mary passed her lips, and then his head sank upon 
 his chest, and he groaned in the anguish of his tortured spirit. 
 
 Inez held in one hand the small Bible given at parting; 
 his eye fell upon it, and he stepped nearer to her: 
 
 “ Inez, the Mary you have loved rests no longer on earth. 
 She has passed away, and dwells in heaven. She was true 
 to God, and his holy law, and great is her reward. Scarce 
 a week since I laid her in her quiet grave, yet not there 
 either, but yielded her up to the arms of God 1 99 
 
 He paused, for his deep tone faltered. Inez rose quickly 
 to her feet as he spoke, and gazed vacantly on his face. 
 
 “ Mary gone forever ! Mary in heaven ! Shall I never 
 again see her, sweet angel of truth and purity, with her soft 
 blue eyes, so full of holy love and gentleness ? Oh, Mary, 
 thou art blessed ! thou art at rest 1 When shall I, too, find 
 eternal rest ? Ere long, Mary, I, too, will sleep the last, 
 unbroken, dreamless sleep ! ” 
 
 Dr. Bryant laid his hand on the sacred volume, and would 
 
/NEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . i8l 
 
 have drawn it from her clasp ; but tightening her hold* she 
 shook her head, and mournfully exclaimed: 
 
 “ No, no ; it is mine ! When I die, it shall be my pillow; 
 while I live, it rests near my heart, and in the churchyard 
 I will not let it go. You have no right to claim it: you 
 have not loved her as I have done. She loved you, yet you 
 heeded not the jewel that might have, even now, been your 
 own ! ” 
 
 “ Inez, I have loved—I do love her, as none other can 1 
 Too late I found my love returned. Had God spared her 
 to me, she would have been my wife. Oh, Mary, Mary! 
 my own cherished one ! May thy spirit hover round me 
 now, as in life thou wert my guardian angel! Inez, I, too, 
 have suffered, and severely. I have little to anticipate in 
 life, yet I am not desponding as you; my faith in God and 
 his unchanging goodness is unshaken. Let us both so live 
 that we may join my Mary in glory.” 
 
 Inez answered not, but passed her hand wearily across 
 her brow. 
 
 “ Inez, which will you do ? retain your disguise, and go 
 with me, or return to your old home ? I am not going to 
 Austin, but to Goliad, to join the Texans there ; will you ac¬ 
 company me, and claim the protection of our banner ? All 
 that a brother could, I will gladly do; with me you are safe, 
 at least for a time; and when the storm of war has passed, 
 I doubt not your home will again be happy.” 
 
 “ I know you, Dr. Bryant, and I know that you are true to 
 God, and keep his law. I will go with you to Goliad, and 
 there we will decide what I must do. Oh ! I am weary and 
 sick at heart, and not long will I burden you.” 
 
 She stooped, and picking up the hat, replaced it on her 
 head, and turned toward her horse. 
 
 Frank kindly took her hand. 
 
 “ Inez, do not despond. I trust all may yet be well with 
 you, and rest assured it gives me heartfelt pleasure to be en¬ 
 abled to render you a service, and take you to a place of 
 safety. But your hand is hot—burning : it is feverish ex¬ 
 citement from which you suffer. When we have reached Go¬ 
 liad, and you can rest, I doubt not your strength and spirits 
 will return; meantime take one of my pistols, it is loaded, 
 and, in case of danger, will render good service.” 
 
182 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 She took the proffered weapon, and having securcu it iu 
 the girdle, turned to mount her horse. Frank assisted in 
 arranging the accouterments, and, springing upon his own 
 recruited steed, they turned their faces southward. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX, 
 
 “ Our bosoms well bare to the glorious strife, 
 And our oath is recorded on high, 
 
 To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life, 
 Or crushed in its ruins to die. 
 
 And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
 
 Look proudly to heaven, from the death-bed of fame.” 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 A bloody seal was set upon thee, oh ! Goliad. A gory 
 banner bound around thy name; and centuries shall slowly 
 roll ere thou art blotted from the memory of man. The 
 annals of the dim and darkened past afford no parallel for 
 the inhuman deed, so calmly, so deliberately committed 
 within thy precincts; and the demon perpetrator escaped 
 unpunished 1 A perfect appreciation of the spirit of the 
 text—“ Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord; I will repay,” 
 alone can sanction the apathy manifested by one to whom 
 the world looked as the avenger of his murdered country¬ 
 men. 
 
 Rumors of the fall of the Alamo, the overwhelming force 
 of Santa Anna, and his own imminent danger, had reached 
 Colonel Fanning. In vain he entreated reinforcements, 
 in vain urged the risk hourly incurred. The Texan coun¬ 
 cils bade him save himself by flight. “ Retreat, fly from 
 the post committed to my keeping I ” The words sounded 
 like a knell on the ear of the noble man to whom they 
 were addressed. He groaned in the anguish of his spirit, 
 “ I will not leave this fortress—Travis fell defending with 
 his latest breath the Alamo ! Oh, Crocket l Bowie! can I 
 do better than follow thy example, and give mv life in this 
 true cause ? " 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 183 
 
 An untimely death—the separation and misery of his dar¬ 
 ling family, weighed not an atom ! “ Patria infelici fidelis !” 
 
 was ever his motto, and unfaltering was his own step. There 
 came a messenger from headquarters—“ Abandon Goliad, 
 and retreat I ” 
 
 “ Colonel, you will not sound a retreat ? ” and Dr. Bryant 
 laid his hand upon his commander’s arm. 
 
 “ My God 1 it is a fearful thing to decide the destinies of 
 four hundred brave men 1 Bryant, if we remain it is certain 
 death—the tragedy of San Antonio will be reacted in our 
 case ! 99 
 
 “ Colonel, you must remember the old saw—‘ He that 
 fights and runs away, lives to fight another day ,’ 97 said a time* 
 worn ranger, settling his collar with perfect nonchalance. 
 
 “ Why, Furgeson, do you counsel flight ? My brave com¬ 
 rade, bethink yourself l r 
 
 “ Well, Colonel, it is something strange for me to say run; 
 but when I do say it, I am in earnest. The most hot-headed 
 fellow in our company dare not say I lack courage : you 
 know as well as I do what they call me—‘ Bulldog Furgeson,’ 
 but who feels like fighting the grand devil himself, and his 
 legion of imps to boot ? I am a lone man and have nothing 
 in particular to live for, it’s true; but it is some object 
 with me to do the most service I can for our Lone blessed 
 Star! I should like a game with old ‘ Santy ’ in a clear ring, 
 and fair play; but I am thinking we had best take French 
 leave of this place, and join the main body where we can 
 fight with some chance ahead. Now that’s my opinion, 
 but if you don’t believe that doctrine, and want to take the 
 ‘old bull right by the horns,’ I say let’s at him.” 
 
 A smile passed over the face of his commander. 
 
 “ Thank you, Furgeson, and rest assured I shall not doubt 
 your stanch support in time of need.” 
 
 Again the broad brow contracted, and, linking his arm in 
 that of Dr. Bryant, he paced to and fro, engrossed in earnest, 
 anxious thought. Pausing at length, he pointed to his troops, 
 awaiting in silence his commands. 
 
 “ Bryant, at least half those brave fellows have wives and 
 children, and bright homes, beckoning them away, yet see 
 them calmly trust to me in this trying hour. Should my 
 order go forth to man the fort, and meet the worst, I know 
 
184 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 full well not a murmur would be heard. Still it is equally 
 certain that, if we brave the conflict, not one of us shall 
 survive to tell the tale. What am I to do ? Make this a 
 second Thermopylae ? ” 
 
 “ Peculiarly painful, I know full well, is the situation in 
 which you are placed. Yet one strong argument remains to 
 be urged. Colonel, if we desert Goliad, and sound a re¬ 
 treat, we cannot escape. The force of the enemy is too 
 powerful, their movements too rapid, to allow us to retire to 
 a place of safety without a desperate encounter. Is it not 
 better policy to remain here, and meet the shock ? ” 
 
 “ If we fight at all it must be at fearful odds ; four hun¬ 
 dred to six thousand! Yet, should I follow the dictates of 
 my own heart, I would not give one inch!—no, not one! 
 Dearly they should buy the ground on which I stand ! ” 
 
 “ Colonel, shall we not meet them on this spot and lay 
 down our lives, as did our brethren of the Alamo ? ” 
 
 “ No, by Jove ! I shall have to leave, whether I will or 
 not! ” And crumpling the note of orders, he tossed it to 
 the ground, and pressed it with his heel. 
 
 He stepped forth, and drawing his military cap about his 
 eyes, folded his arms upon his broad chest, and addressed 
 his troops: 
 
 “ Comrades! Retreat is no test of an army’s bravery, 
 neither the courage of its commander. In every age and 
 nation, circumstances have occurred in which the cause of 
 liberty, or the general welfare of the state, has been pro¬ 
 moted by timely flight rather than desperate engagements. 
 ‘ The Swamp Fox ’ often retired to his island of refuge, safe 
 from invading bands—the daring Sumter was forced at times 
 to retreat; and even our great Washington fled from supe¬ 
 rior forces, and waited till a more convenient season. Fellow- 
 soldiers : there is one of two steps to be immediately taken. 
 We will stand to our post, and fall to a man, like Travis 
 and his noble band, and our names will go down to posterity 
 as did the Spartans of old, 
 
 * Wreathed with honor, and immortal fame ; ’ 
 
 or else we set out at once for headquarters, consolidate our 
 forces, and march united to oppose Santa Anna. 
 
INEZ • A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 “ Comrades, which will ye do ? ” 
 
 No sound was heard along the ranks, each bent his head 
 and communed with his own spirit; and the image of their 
 distant, yet cherished homes, rose up and murmured—“ Re¬ 
 member thy weeping wife and thy fair-browed boy; who will 
 guard them when thou art gone ? ” 
 
 The eagle eye of their brave leader was piercingly bent 
 on the mute assemblage; the momentary gleam of hope that 
 lighted his noble countenance faded away. There came a 
 faint sound of rising voices—it swelled louder, and louder 
 still: 
 
 “ God bless our noble Colonel! our brave Fanning ! With 
 him is the issue. Say but the word, and we will follow! ” 
 
 “ Bryant, I cannot sign their death-warrant! ” he said in 
 a low, subdued tone, sinking his head upon his breast. He 
 lifted himself up, and raising his voice, calmly replied: 
 
 “ Had I not received orders to retreat, and if I were not 
 fully aware that lingering here insured our total destruction, 
 I should scorn to turn my back upon Goliad ! Oh ! gladly 
 I would die in its defense; but your fate is too entirely in 
 my hands to admit of following my individual wishes ! None 
 know the pang it causes me to sound a 6 Retreat/ yet it may 
 be, that the success of our cause demands it at my hands, 
 and therefore I say, ‘ Retreat, comrades ! ’—at dawn to¬ 
 morrow, we move from Goliad.” 
 
 The decree went forth, and the ensuing day saw the 
 doomed band moving eastward toward headquarters they 
 were destined never to reach. 
 
 On arriving at Goliad, Dr. Bryant had immediately en¬ 
 listed, after placing Inez in safety at the house of an aged 
 Senora of her nation ; and no sooner was it decided to leave 
 the town the following day than he sought his Spanish friend. 
 
 She was sitting alone when he entered, and quickly ris¬ 
 ing, placed a seat for him. 
 
 “ Thank you, Inez, I have only a moment to remain—I 
 come to say good-by.” 
 
 “ Which way do your people go now ? ” she hoarsely 
 asked. 
 
 “ Santa Anna is marching with overwhelming forces to¬ 
 ward us, and Colonel Fanning thinks it advisable to retire 
 to headquarters- We set out at dawn to-morrow.” 
 
i86 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 “ You cannot escape by flight: it were better to remain 
 here. I tell you now, if you leave Goliad, you will be cut 
 off to a man.” 
 
 “ Inez, my own feelings would strongly incline me to 
 follow your advice, but it has been decided otherwise l ” 
 
 “ Then, if you must go, I go with you! ” 
 
 “ Impossible, Inez, impossible I you know not what you 
 say! For you to venture from this place under existing 
 circumstances, beset as we are on every hand with dangers 
 seen and unseen, would be the height of madness.” 
 
 “ I know not fear! of that you must have been convinced 
 long ere this. Danger cannot intimidate me ; what you 
 meet and suffer, that will I encounter.” 
 
 “ Bethink yourself, Inez ! What can you hope to accom¬ 
 plish by this strange step ? You have nothing to fear 
 here from your own nation: what can you gain by seeking 
 a home among my people? Strange, mysterious being! I 
 wish for your own sake you were timid—that fear might 
 strengthen your sense of prudence! ” 
 
 Inez had bent her head while he spoke, as in humiliation, 
 now she lifted herself and said, in a low, determined tone: 
 
 “ I am alone in the wide world, and I have but one hope, 
 but one pleasure; to be with you while life remains, and to 
 die near, that you may close my eyes and lay me down to 
 rest.” She paused a moment, and then clasping her hands, 
 approached him, and continued in a more passionate tone : 
 
 “ Oh, if you knew how I have loved you, you could not 
 look down so coldly, so calmly upon me! you could not 
 refuse the favor I ask ! Oh, Dr. Bryant, do not scorn me 
 for my love!—’tis not a common love ; for it I have lost 
 every earthly comfort and blessing ; for this struggled and 
 toiled, and braved numberless dangers. I have loved you 
 better than everything beside ! Turn not from me, and 
 think contemptuously of the worship given unsought! If 
 you cannot love me, do not, oh, do not despise me! Let 
 me a little while longer be with you, and see you; I will not 
 trouble or incommode any one—do not leave me. Oh, Dr. 
 Bryant, do not leave me ! ” 
 
 The large black eyes were raised entreatingly to his, and an 
 expression of the keenest anguish rested on her colorless, 
 yet beautiful face. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 187 
 
 Sadly he regarded her as she hurried on: no glance of 
 scorn rested even for a moment upon her. Yet a stern 
 sorrow settled on his broad brow, and around the firmly 
 Compressed lips. 
 
 “ Inez, I do not, cannot love you, other than as the kind 
 friend of other days. I have never loved but one—I never 
 shall. Mary, my own angel Mary, ever rests in my heart. 
 I cannot forget her—I can never love another. I do not 
 even thank you for your love, for your avowal gives me in¬ 
 expressible pain! I have suspected this, Inez, for long, 
 and your own heart will tell you I gave no ground to hope 
 that I could return your affection. I have striven to treat 
 you like a sister of late, yet this painful hour has not been 
 averted. Equally painful to both. Inez, your own words 
 make it more than ever necessary that we should part for¬ 
 ever. I cannot return your love—I will not encourage it. 
 You must, as soon as safety allows, return to your old home. 
 Inez, do not cherish your affection for me, it can only bring 
 pain and remorse; forget me, and remember that you have 
 imperative duties of your own to perform. This is your 
 darkest hour, and believe me, in time you will be happy, 
 and a blessing to your people. Remember Mary’s words, 
 and her parting gift, and I pray God that we may so live 
 that we shall all meet in a happier home/’ 
 
 “ Then I shall never see you again ? ” she said, in a calm 
 and unfaltering voice. 
 
 “ For your sake, Inez, it is best that we should not meet 
 again. If I survive this war I go to Europe, and you will 
 probably never see me more. Inez, I pain you—forgive 
 me. Your own good requires this candor on my part.” 
 
 x\n ashy paleness overspread the cheek and brow of his 
 companion as he spoke, and the small hands clutched each 
 other tightly, yet no words passed the quivering lips. 
 
 “ Good-by, Inez ! my kind and valued friend, good-by! ” 
 He held out his hand. She raised her head, and gazed 
 into the sad yet noble face of the man she had loved so long. 
 She clasped his hand between both hers, and a moan of 
 bitter anguish escaped the lips. 
 
 “ My love will follow you forever! A woman of my 
 nature cannot forget. I shall sink to eternal rest with your 
 name on my lips—your image in my heai t. Yet I would 
 
i88 
 
 (NEZ: A TALE OF THE ALA Mu. 
 
 not keep you here—go, and may your God ever bless you, 
 and—and—may you at last meet your Mary, if there be a 
 heaven ! We part now, for you have said it; good-by, and 
 sometimes, when all is joy and gladness to you, think a 
 moment on Inez ! the cursed, the miserable Inez ! sitting in 
 bitter darkness by her lonely hearth ! Good-by! ” She 
 pressed her lips to his hand, and without a tear, shrouded 
 her face jn her mantilla and turned away. 
 
 “ God bless you, Inez, and keep you from all harm ! 99 
 and Dr. Bryant left the house, and returned to his com- 
 mander. 
 
 Colonel Fanning had led his troops but a few miles when 
 the vanguard halted, and some excitement was manifested. 
 Spurring forward, he inquired the cause of delay. 
 
 “ Why, Colonel, if we ain’t 4 out of the frying-pan into the 
 fire,’ my name is not Will Furgeson. Look yonder, Colonel, 
 it takes older and weaker eyes than mine to say them ain’t 
 Santy Anna’s imps marching down upon us thick as bees 
 just swarmed, too! ” 
 
 44 You are right, Furgeson ; it is the entire Mexican force! 
 let us form at once and meet them 1 ” 
 
 Quick and clearly his orders rung out, and his little band, 
 compact and firm, waited in silence the result. With an 
 exulting shout the Mexicans charged. Desperately the 
 doomed Texans fought, heaping up the slain at every step. 
 The wily Santa Anna changed his tactics. There came a 
 momentary cessation as the crowding thousands were furi¬ 
 ously driven back. And, seizing the opportunity, he spurred 
 forward, offered honorable terms, and besought Fanning to 
 surrender and save the lives of his brave followers. 
 
 “We will only surrender on condition that every privilege 
 of prisoners of war be guaranteed to us,” replied Colonel 
 Fanning. 
 
 44 I, Santa Anna, commander-in-chief of the Mexican 
 forces, do most solemnly pledge my word, that all the priv¬ 
 ileges consistent with your situation as prisoners of war, 
 shall be extended to yourself and men. And hereby swear, 
 that on these conditions you may lay down your arms in 
 safety, without further molestation on our part.” 
 
INEZ ; A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 189 
 
 Is there one of my readers who for a moment would 
 attach blame to the noble Fanning ? The lives of his men 
 were of far more importance to him than the renown of 
 perishing, like Travis, in a desperate struggle. With the 
 latter there was no alternative, for the cry of even seven 
 exhausted men for “ quarter ” was disregarded, and the 
 garrison fell to a man. But honorable terms were offered 
 Fanning: he remembered his men, and surrendered. Santa 
 Anna 1 can there be pardon for such a hardened wretch as 
 you ? Does not sleep fly your pillow ? In the silent watches 
 of the night, do not the specter forms of your victims cluster 
 about your couch, and the shambles of Goliad rise before 
 you ? Can you find rest from the echoing shrieks of 
 murdered thousands, or shut your eyes and fail to perceive 
 'die mangled forms stiffening in death, and weltering in gore ? 
 If you are human, which I much doubt, your blackened 
 soul will be tortured with unavailing remorse, till Death 
 doses your career on earth, and you are borne to the 
 tribunal of Almighty God, there to receive your reward. . . . 
 
 Night found the Texans again in Goliad, and they sought 
 sleep secure from evil; for had not Santa Anna’s word been 
 given that further molestation would not be allowed ? and 
 they believed l Soundly they slept, and dreamed of far-off 
 homes and fireside joys. 
 
 u That bright dream was their last! M 
 
 Sunrise came, and they were drawn out upon the Plaza. 
 Their leader was retained in custody, and, unsuspicious of 
 harm, they each maintained their position. Dr. Bryant 
 raised his eyes—they rested but a moment on Santa Anna’s 
 face. Turning quickly, he shouted aloud, 
 
 " Turn, comrades, let us not be shot in the back ! ” 
 
 Another moment the signal was given, and a deadly fire 
 poured upon four hundred unresisting prisoners of war, to 
 whom honorable conditions had been granted by the brave 
 and noble generalissimo of the Mexican forces. 
 
 Not one of many noble forms was spared. Dr. Bryant 
 sank without a struggle to the earth; and his spirit, released 
 from sorrowing mortality, sprung up to meet his Mary and 
 his God l 
 
 The deed was done; and Santa Anna, the mighty chief 
 
igo 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 who mowed down four hundred unarmed men, was immor- 
 talized! Fear not, brave heart, that posterity will forget 
 thee 1 Rest assured that the lapse of time cannot obliter¬ 
 ate the memory of thy mighty deeds 1 
 
 Fanning survived but a few hours, and then a well-aimed 
 ball laid low forever his noble head. Who among us can 
 calmly remember that his body was denied a burial ? Oh, 
 thou martyr leader of a martyr band, we cherish thy memory 1 
 dear to the heart of every Texan, every American, every 
 soldier, and every patriot. Peace to thee, noble Fanning! 
 and may the purest joys of heaven be yours in that eternity 
 to which we all are hastening. 
 
 It was noon I Still and cold lay the four hundred forms 
 upon the Plaza, Even as they sank, so they slept. No 
 disturbing hand had misplaced one stiffened member. The 
 silence of death reigned around the murdered band. A 
 muffled figure swiftly stole down the now deserted streets, 
 and hurrying to the Plaza, paused and gazed on the ruin 
 and wreck that surrounded her. Pools of blood were yet 
 standing, and the earth was damp with gore. One by one 
 Inez turned the motionless forms, still the face she sought 
 was not to be found. She had almost concluded her search, 
 when her eye fell on a prostrate form, closely wrapt in a 
 long black cloak; she knelt and gazed into the upturned 
 face, and a low cry of bitter anguish welled up and passed 
 her colorless lips. Gently she lifted the cloak, clasped by 
 one icy hand: the ball had pierced his side, and entered the 
 heart. So instantaneous had been his death that not a fea¬ 
 ture was convulsed. The dark clustering hair was borne 
 back from the broad white brow, the eyes closed as in deep 
 sleep, the finely-cut lips just parted. Pallid was the cheek, 
 yet calm and noble beyond degree was the marble face on 
 which Inez gazed. She caught the cold hand to her lips, 
 and laid her cheek near his mouth, that she might know and 
 realize that his spirit had indeed joined Mary’s in the “ land 
 of rest.” The icy touch extinguished every gleam of hope, 
 and calmly she drew the cloak over the loved face, conceal¬ 
 ing every feature, then dropped her handkerchief upon the 
 
INEZ; A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 I 9 I 
 
 covered head, and drawing her mantilla like a shroud about 
 her, went her way to wait for night and darkness. 
 
 Stretched on a couch in the home of the kind-hearted 
 Senora who had received her, Inez noted the moments and 
 hours as they passed. An eternity seemed comprised in the 
 time which elapsed from noon till dusk. Again and again 
 she raised her bowed head, and looked out on the slowly 
 sinking sun. It passed at length beyond her vision. She 
 rose and sought her friend, an aged dame, whom God had 
 gifted with a gentle heart, keenly alive to the grief and suf¬ 
 ferings of another. 
 
 “ Well, Senorita Inez, what will you have ? ” 
 
 “ I have a great favor to ask, yet it is one I doubt not 
 will be granted. Senora, among yonder slain is one who in 
 life was ever kind to me and to our people. Since morning 
 he has lain in his own blood ! To-morrow will see them 
 thrown into heaps, and left with scarce sod enough to cover 1 
 I cannot, will not see him buried so ! I myself will lay him 
 down to rest, if Santa Anna claims my life for it to-morrow I 
 I have caused a grave to be dug in a quiet spot, but I can¬ 
 not bear him to it unassisted. My strength is gone—I am 
 well-nigh spent: will you help me to-night ? They will not 
 miss him to-morrow, and none will know till all is at rest I 
 Senora, will you come with me ? 99 
 
 “ Tell me first, Inez, if it is he who brought you here; 
 who acted so nobly to me, and bade adieu to you but two 
 days since ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, the same ! will you refuse to assist me now ? ” 
 
 “ No, by our blessed Virgin! I will do all an old woman 
 like me can do; yet united, Inez, we shall be strong.” 
 
 Wrapping their mantillas about them, they noiselessly pro¬ 
 ceeded to the Plaza. Darkness had closed in, and happily 
 they met not even a straggling soldier, for all, with instinctive 
 dread, shunned the horrid scene. They paused as Senora 
 Berara stumbled over a dead body, and well-nigh slipped in 
 blood: 
 
 “ Jesu Maria ! my very bones ache with horror! this is 
 no place for me. Senorita, how will you know the body ? 
 Oh 1 let us make haste to leave here l ” 
 
 “ Hush 1 do you see a white spot gleaming yonder ? Nay, 
 don't clutch my arm, it is only my handerchief. I laid it 
 
192 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OS THE ALAMO. 
 
 there to mark the place. Come on, step lightly, or you will 
 press the dead.” 
 
 With some difficulty they made their way along the damp, 
 slippery ground, now and then catching at each other for 
 support Inez paused on reaching her mark, and bent down 
 for several moments; then raising herself she whispered: 
 
 “ Senora, I have wrapped his cloak tightly about him* 
 lift the corners near his feet, while I carry his head. Be 
 careful, lift gently, and do not let the cloak slip.” 
 
 Slowly they lifted the motionless form, and steadily bore 
 it away: Inez taking the lead, and stepping cautiously. 
 She left the Plaza and principal streets, and turned toward 
 a broad desolate waste, stretching away from the town, and 
 bare, save a few gnarled oaks that moaned in the March 
 wind. The moon rose when they had proceeded some dis¬ 
 tance beyond the last house, and Inez paused suddenly, and 
 looked anxiously about her. 
 
 “ Sacra Dio! I trust you have not lost your way! Holy 
 Mother, preserve us if we have gone wrong.” 
 
 “ I knew we must be near the place: it is under yonder 
 tree ; fear nothing Senora, come on : ” and a few more steps 
 brought them to the designated spot. 
 
 A shallow excavation had been made, sufficient to admit 
 with ease the body of a full-grown man; and on its margin 
 they softly laid their burden down. Every object shone in 
 the clear moonlight, and stranger scene never moon shone 
 upon. A dreary waste stretched away in the distance, and 
 sighingly the wind swept over it. Inez knelt beside the 
 grave, her wan yet still beautiful features convulsed with the 
 secret agony of her tortured soul; the long raven hair float¬ 
 ing like a black veil around the wasted form. Just before 
 her stood the old woman, weird-like, her wrinkled, swarthy 
 face exposed to full view, while the silver hair, unbound by 
 her exertion, streamed in the night breeze. Loosely her 
 clothes hung about her, and the thin, bony hands were 
 clasped tightly as she bent forward and gazed on the marble 
 face of the dead. Wonder, awe, fear, pity, all strangely 
 blended in her dark countenance. 
 
 Inez groaned, and rocked herself to and fro, as if crushed 
 in body and spirit. She could not lay him to rest forever 
 without the bitterest anguish, for in life she had worshiped 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 193 
 
 him, and in death her heart clung to the loved form. Again 
 and again she kissed the cold hand she held. 
 
 “ Senorita, we must make haste to lay him in, and cover 
 him closely. Don’t waste time weeping now; you cannot 
 give him life again. Have done, Senorita Inez, and let us 
 finish our work.” 
 
 “ I am not weeping, Senora ! I have not shed a single 
 tear; yet be patient: surely there is yet time.” 
 
 Inez straightened the cloak in which Frank Bryant was 
 shrouded, placed the hands calmly by his side, and softly 
 smoothed the dark hair on his high and noble brow. She 
 passionately kissed the cold lips once, then covered forever 
 the loved, loved features, and they carefully lowered the still 
 form into its last resting-place. 
 
 They stood up, and the old dame pointed to the earth 
 piled on either side. Inez shuddered and closed her eyes 
 a moment, as if unequal to the task. 
 
 Her companion stooped, and was in the act of tossing for- 
 ward a mass of earth ; but Inez interposed : “ Senora, softly ! 
 I will do this : remember there is no coffin.” 
 
 Fearfully calm was her tone as she slowly pushed in the 
 earth. There was no hollow echo, such as ofttimes rends 
 the heart of the mourner, but a heavy, dull sound of earth 
 crushing earth. Gradually she filled the opening even with 
 the surface, then carefully scattered the remaining sod. 
 
 “ I will not raise a mound, for they would tear him up, 
 should they know where I have laid him.” Inez walked 
 away, and gathering a quantity of brown, shriveled leaves, 
 and also as much grass as she could draw from the short 
 bunches, sprinkled them on the grave and along the fresh 
 earth. 
 
 “ Think you, Senora, they will find him here ? ” 
 
 “ No, no, Senorita! none will know that we have buried 
 him. But the night is already far gone, why do you linger ? ” 
 
 For a moment longer Inez gazed down upon the new- 
 made grave : “ But a few more hours, and I shall sleep here 
 by your side ; farewell till then.” 
 
 She turned away, and silently they retraced their steps 
 to the town, reaching without inquiry or molestation their 
 own home. 
 
 13 
 
*94 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI* 
 
 “ So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, that moves 
 To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 
 Thou go not, like the quarry slave, at night 
 Scourged to his dungeon ; but sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.” 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 A bright day in April drew near its close, and the golden 
 rays of the spring sun poured joyously through the open case¬ 
 ment into the chamber of death. Yes, the “ King of Terrors ” 
 drew nigh, and the cold damp, which his black pinions swept 
 on, settled upon the brow of Inez. A few days after the 
 massacre at Goliad, a raging fever crimsoned her cheeks, 
 and lent unwonted brilliance to the large black eyes. Delir¬ 
 ium ensued, and wildly the unfortunate girl raved of the past 
 —of her former love, her hopelessness, her utter desolation. 
 The dreamless sleep of exhaustion followed this temporary 
 madness: long she lay in the stupor so near akin to death, 
 and now, consciousness restored, she awaited in silence her 
 hour! In vain the kind-hearted Sehora entreated her to see 
 a priest—steadfastly she refused. At length Madame Berara 
 assumed the responsibility of calling in her own confessor, 
 and silently quitting the room, went in quest of him. Inez 
 suspected the cause of her usual absence, and too feeble to 
 concentrate her thoughts, turned her face to the wall, and 
 wearily closed her eyes. Yet one hand felt along the 
 cover and beneath the pillow. For what was she searching 
 on the bed of death ? The thin fingers rested on a small 
 and well-worn Bible, and a tiny package, wrapped in paper 
 and carefully tied. The sacred volume was feebly pushed 
 beneath her head, and mechanically she undid the knot, and 
 drew forth a glossy lock of black hair. Wearily she pressed 
 it to her lips several times, and again folding it away, her 
 hands sank powerless upon her bosom. 
 
fNEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 *95 
 
 Inez, Inez! are there none near to clasp thy cold hand 
 and tenderly lift thy weary head ? Alas, thou desolate one, 
 Thou art left alone in the bitter hour of thy trial I When 
 all things seem shrouded in impenetrable gloom, and thy 
 darkened soul turns from the tortured past to the dim, un¬ 
 certain future, no loved one is nigh to dash away the gather¬ 
 ing mists, and point to that celestial home “ of which it hath 
 not entered into the heart of man to conceive.” 
 
 Oh, Inez 1 thy short life has been dark and tempestuous ; 
 it is hard that a calm and peaceful end is denied to thee, 
 thou suffering one, longing for rest, oblivion of the past, 
 utter unconsciousness 1 Struggle on, proud maiden ! but a 
 few moments, and thy tones will vibrate no longer, thy firm 
 step cease forever, and thy memory pass away like the 
 shadows of night! 
 
 Senora Berara re-entered the silent chamber, accom¬ 
 panied by a priest, clad in the vestments of his order. They 
 approached the bed, and the aged dame, bending over Inez, 
 whispered audibly: 
 
 “ I could not find my own Padre, but I bring one who 
 will confess and absolve thee ? Make haste to prepare for 
 heaven.” 
 
 “ I want neither confession nor absolution 1 Begone ! and 
 let me die in peace,” she answered, without unclosing the 
 lids, which lay so heavily upon the sunken eyes. 
 
 “ Leave us together! I will call thee when thou art 
 wanted,” whispered he of the Order of Jesus. The matron 
 immediately withdrew, repeating an Ave Maria; and they 
 were left alone. 
 
 “ Inez 1 ” 
 
 A shudder crept through the wasted form, and, with a 
 start, she looked upon the face of the intruder. Even in 
 death, hatred was strong; the dim eye flashed, and the cold, 
 damp lips wreathed into a smile of utter scorn: 
 
 “ Well, Padre ! you have tracked me at last. It is a pity, 
 though, you had not set out one day later; you would have 
 altogether missed your prey ! But I am content, for I am 
 far beyond your reach ! ” She gasped for breath, yet ghastly 
 was the mocking smile which lit up the face. 
 
 “ Not so, Inez I you escaped me once; I have you now I 
 You have defied me in health; but in death I conquer. You 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 196 
 
 cannot die in peace without my blessing. Remember, re¬ 
 member, one sin unconfessed will sink you into everlasting 
 perdition ! Think you I will absolve you 1 Never ! Never! * 
 
 “ What brings you here ? Think you the approach of 
 death will terrify me ?—that I shall claim your intercession 
 and absolution ? Have you come hoping to make a bargain, 
 and receive my order for a hundred sheep, or as many cattle, 
 on condition that you pray me out of purgatory ? I tell you 
 now, if there be such a place, you will surely follow me ere 
 long. We shall not be separated long, my godly Padre 1 ” 
 
 Large drops rolled from her brow, and, gasping, she con¬ 
 tinued more indistinctly: 
 
 “ There is one to stand between us now, even blackbrowed 
 Death! and now, as I speak, I see his shadow flung over me. 
 I am dying, and if I am lost, you are to blame 1 you, and 
 you only 1 You a man of God! You forgive my sins, and 
 give me a passport to heaven! Padre, I know you, in all 
 your hypocrisy, and I know that, if there be a God, you have 
 outraged His every law! You have led me astray! You 
 have brought me to this! Padre, I am sinful, full well I 
 know it; for this is an hour when the barrier which hides 
 the secret soul is thrown down, and every deed and thought 
 stands up boldly for itself. I have not served God! But 
 oh! I would not change places with you, leader, teacher, 
 guide, consecrated priest, as you are—for you have mocked 
 him! Yes, mocked him! set aside his written word, and 
 instead of Bible truths you told me of Saints, and Relics,and 
 Miracles! You bade me worship the cross, and never once 
 mentioned Him who consecrated it with his agony and blood \ 
 In my childhood I believed your legends and miracles, 
 and trusted to such as you to save me. A dreadful curse 
 will rest upon your head, for you came in sheep’s clothing, 
 and devoured many precious souls ! Padre, I—I—” In vain 
 she strove to articulate, further utterance was denied her. 
 The ghastly hue of death settled upon her face. She lifted 
 her eyes to heaven as in prayer; vacantly they wandered to 
 the face of the Padre, now well-nigh as pale as her own; 
 then slowly closed forever. A slight quiver passed over the 
 lips, a faint moan, and Inez was at rest. For long her 
 wearied spirit had cried “ Peace ! peace! ” and now she laid 
 herself down and slept the long, unbroken sleep of death. 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 197 
 
 * Oh! you have yearned for rest. 
 
 May you find it in the regions of the blest." 
 
 As she had died without the pale of the church, they 
 refused the lifeless form a narrow bed in consecrated ground. 
 Even the ordinary service for the dead was entirely omitted ; 
 and, without a prayer, they committed her to the silent 
 tomb. The kind old dame, remembering her grief at the 
 secret burial of her noble friend, obtained permission to lay 
 her by his side, and, with the fierce howlings of the tempest 
 for her funereal dirge, they consigned Inez—the proud, 
 beautiful, gifted, yet unfortunate Inez—to rest. Peace, 
 Inez, to thy memory, and may the sod lie lightly on thy 
 early grave 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 u There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, 
 
 When two, that are linked in one heavenly tie, 
 
 With heart never changing, and brow never cold, 
 
 Love on through all ills, and love on till they die ! ** 
 
 Moore. 
 
 “ Come, Florence, put on your bonnet; we land in a few 
 moments,” said Mr. Stewart, entering the splendidly fur¬ 
 nished saloon of a Mississippi steamer, where she sat, book 
 in hand. Quietly the young wife, for such she now was, 
 complied with his request, and taking her husband’s arm, 
 they advanced to the bow of the boat. It was a bright, 
 sunny morning in early May, and the balmy breath of the 
 opening summer wafted gladness to many a weary, aching 
 heart. The margin of the river was fringed with willow, 
 poplar, cotton-wood, and cypress, the delicate fresh green 
 foliage contrasting beautifully with the deep azure sky, and 
 the dark whirling waters of the turbid stream. It was such 
 a day as all of us may have known, when nature wore the 
 garb of perfect beauty, and the soothing influence is felt 
 and acknowledged gratefully—joyfully acknowledged by 
 
igS INEZ • A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 every one accustomed from childhood duly to appreciate, 
 admire, and love the fair and numberless works of God, 
 who, 
 
 -“ Not content 
 
 With every food of life to nourish man, 
 
 Makes all nature beauty to his eye 
 And music to his ear.” 
 
 Florence was gazing intently, as each object receded 
 from her view. They turned an angle in the stream, and 
 drew near a landing, with only a solitary warehouse visible. 
 She started, and her clasped hands, resting on her husband’s 
 arm, pressed heavily. He looked down into the flushed face, 
 and said with a smile: 
 
 “Well, Florence, what is it? Why do you tremble 
 so?” 
 
 “ Mr. Stewart, I cannot be mistaken: this is my fathers 
 old landing ! Why do you look so strangely ? Oh 1 if you 
 knew what painful memories crowd upon my mind, you could 
 not smile so calmly ! ” and her voice faltered. 
 
 “ Laying his hand tenderly on hers, he replied: 
 
 “ You once asked me whereabouts on the river my planta¬ 
 tion was situated. I evaded your question. You are aware 
 that I inherited it from a bachelor uncle. He purchased 
 it from your father, and to your old home, my dear Flor¬ 
 ence, we have come at last. It is yours again, and I should 
 have told you long ago, but feared you might be impatient 
 of the journey ; and then it is pleasant to surprise you.” 
 
 Ere Florence could speak the mingled emotions of her 
 heart, the boat stopped, and the jangling bells warned them 
 to lose no time. 
 
 Mr. Stewart placed her on the bank, and beckoning to a 
 coachman mounted on a large heavy carriage, opened the 
 door, assisted her in, and then cordially shaking the out¬ 
 stretched hand of the servant, inquired if all were well at 
 home ? ” 
 
 “ Oh yes, sir ! all well except your mother. She has had 
 the asthma, but is better. But ain’t you going to let me look 
 at your wife? You put her in as if I wan’t to see my new 
 mistress.” 
 
 Mr. Stewart laughed, and opening the door, bade Flor¬ 
 ence look out; she threw back her long mourning veil, 
 
r 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 199 
 
 and bent forward; their eyes met, and both started with 
 surprise: 
 
 “ Isaac! ” 
 
 “ Miss Florry ! sure as I am alive 1 ” and he grasped the 
 white hand heartily. 
 
 “ I cannot understand this at all 1 Isaac, how came you 
 here ? ” 
 
 “ Why you see, when the plantation was sold, we were 
 sold with it; that’s how I come to be here.” 
 
 “ My dear Florence, it is strange, very strange, that I 
 never once thought of your recognizing the servants, though 
 I should have known you could not forget them. In what 
 capacity did Isaac formerly serve ? ” 
 
 “ He was always our coachman ; and many a ride in child¬ 
 hood I owe to^his kindness and wish to make me happy. 
 Isaac, I am very glad to see you again. And her smile 
 confirmed her words. 
 
 Mr. Stewart took the seat by her side, and was closing the 
 door, when the old man interfered. 
 
 “ Miss Florry, I know old master is dead—we heard that 
 sometime ago; but where is Miss Mary ? that blessed 
 good child, that never gave a cross word to one on the plan¬ 
 tation Why didn’t she come home with you ? ” 
 
 Florence could not reply, and the tears rolled silently over 
 her cheeks. 
 
 “ Isaac, ” said Mr. Stewart, in a low, saddened tone, 
 u Mary has gone to a brighter home in heaven ! She is happier 
 far than she could be even here with us! She died about a 
 month ago.” 
 
 There was a pause, and then, wiping his rough sleeve 
 across his eyes, Isaac slowly said—“ And Miss Mary is dead! 
 Well, she has gone to heaven, if ever anybody did! for she 
 was never like common children. Many’s the time when my 
 poor little Hannah was burnt, and like to die, that child has 
 come by herself of dark nights to bring her a cake, or some¬ 
 thing sweet and good! God bless her little soul! she always 
 was an angel! ” and again wiping his eyes he mounted the 
 box and drove homeward. 
 
 Ah! gentle Mary I no sculptured monument marks thy 
 resting-place! No eulogistic sermon, no high-flown pane¬ 
 gyric was ever delivered on thy life and death l Yet that 
 
200 
 
 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO . 
 
 silent tear of old Isaacs outspoke a thousand eulogies I It 
 told of all thy kindness, charity, love, angelic purity of heart, 
 and called thee “ Guardian Angel ” of the house of Hamil¬ 
 ton. 
 
 Night found Florence sitting alone in the parlor of her 
 old and dearly loved home. The apartment was much as 
 she had left it five years before, and old familiar articles of 
 furniture greeted her on every side. She sat down to the 
 piano, on which in girlhood she had practised, and gently 
 touched the keys. The soft tones, waking the “ slumbering 
 chord of memory,” brought most vividly back the scenes 
 of other days. Again she stood there an only cherished 
 daughter, and her father’s image, as he used to stand lean¬ 
 ing against the mantel-piece, rose with startling distinctness 
 before her. And there, too, stood her cousin, with the soft 
 blue eyes and golden curls of her girlhood ; and she fancied 
 she heard, once again, the clear, sweet voice, and felt the 
 fond twining of her arms about her. Long forgotten cir¬ 
 cumstances in primitive freshness rushed upon her mind, 
 and unable to bear the sad associations which crowded up, 
 Florence turned away from the instrument, and seating her¬ 
 self on the sofa, gave vent to an uncontrollable burst of 
 sorrow— 
 
 “ Oh ! what a luxury it is to weep, 
 
 And find in tears a sad relief ! ” 
 
 And calmly Florence wept, not bitterly, for she had had 
 much of sorrow to bear, and schooled her heart to meet 
 grief and sadness. Yet it was hard to come back to her 
 cherished home and miss from her side the gentle playmate 
 of her youth, the parent she had almost idolized, and feel 
 that she had left them in far distant resting-places. She 
 heard her husband’s step along the hall, and saw him enter 
 —she strove to repress her tears and seem happy, but the 
 quivering lips refused to smile. He sat down, and draw¬ 
 ing his arm around her, pressed her face to his bosom, and 
 tenderly said : 
 
 “ My mother had much to say, after my long absence, and 
 I could not leave her till this moment. My own heart told 
 me that you suffered, and I longed to come to you and 
 sympathize and cheer.” 
 
INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 201 
 
 “ Do not think me weak, Mr- Stewart, because you find 
 me weeping. It is seldom I give vent to my feelings, but 
 to-night I am overwhelmed with recollections of the past. 
 Oh ! now, for the first time, I realize that Mary has indeed 
 gone forever. Mary ! Mary ! my heart aches already for 
 you, and your warm unchanging love! Oh! how can I 
 look forward to the long coming years, and feel that I shall 
 never see her again ? ” 
 
 “ Florence, my own Florence, I would not have you re¬ 
 press a single tear. I know how sadly altered all things 
 are, and what a dreary look your home must bear. All I 
 ask is, that when you feel lonely and unhappy, instead of 
 hiding your grief, come to me, lay your weary head upon 
 my shoulder, and I will strive to cheer you my precious 
 wife! Let nothing induce you to keep aught from me— 
 let perfect confidence reign between us; and do not, for a 
 moment, doubt that I wish you other than you are. The 
 past is very painful both to you and to me, and the mem¬ 
 ory of Frank and Mary constantly saddens my spirit. 
 Yet we will look forward to a happier future, and strive to 
 guide and cheer each other.” He kissed the broad brow 
 as he spoke, and drew tighter the arm which encircled his 
 wife, as though no danger could assail while he was 
 near. 
 
 “ Of late, Mr. Stewart, I have wondered much how you 
 ever learned to love me ; for I am much changed, and in 
 my girlhood I was cold, proud, and often contemptuous in 
 my manner. Ah, Mary, how different from you 1 If I have 
 higher aims in life, and purer joys, I owe it all to her, for 
 she led me to love the law of God, and exemplified in her 
 daily life the teachings of Christ! But for her, I shudder 
 to think what I should now have been ! O God, I thank 
 thee that I am saved even as a burning brand from the fire! 
 I have hope of happiness on earth, and at last a joyful re¬ 
 union with the loved ones that have gone on home before 
 me. And you, my husband, help me to conquer myself to 
 break down my pride, and to be more like Mary. Oh, for¬ 
 give my weaknesses, and ever love me as you now do 1 ” 
 
 He clasped her to his heart, and whispered—“ Fear not, 
 Florence, that I will ever love you less 1 I, too, have faults 
 which you may be called on to excuse, yet all is bright for 
 
202 INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO. 
 
 us, and I trust no common share of happiness will be our 
 portion through life I ” 
 
 u Oh, sweet reward of danger past! 
 
 How lovely, through tne tears 
 That speak her hearts o’erflowing joy. 
 The young wife’s smile appears. 
 
 The fount of love for her hath gushed, 
 Life’s shadows all have flown , 
 
 Joy, Florence ! thou a heart hast fouad 
 Responding to thine own J r 
 
 THE END* 
 
EDNA’S SACRIFICE 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
EDNA’S SACRIFICE. 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 r was a cold night in September. For three days the 
 rain had fallen almost unceasingly. It had been im¬ 
 possible for us to get out; and no visitors had been in. 
 Everything looked dreary enough, and we felt so, truly. 
 Of course the stoves were not prepared for use; and this 
 night we (that is, Nell, Floy, Aunt Edna, and myself) were 
 huddled in the corners of the sofa and arm-chairs, wrapped 
 in our shawls. We were at our wits’ end for something to 
 while the hours away. We had read everything that was 
 readable; played until we fancied the piano sent forth a 
 wail of complaint, and begged for rest; were at the back¬ 
 gammon board until our arms ached; and I had given 
 imitations of celebrated actresses, until I was hoarse, and 
 Nell declared I was in danger of being sued for scandal. 
 What more could we do? To dispel the drowsiness that 
 was stealing over me, I got up, walked up and down the 
 floor, and then drew up the blind, and gazed out into the 
 deserted street. Not a footfall to be heard, neither man’s 
 nor beast’s; nothing but patter, patter, patter. At length, 
 after standing fully fifteen minutes—oh, joyful sound !—a 
 coming footstep, firm and quick. My first thought was 
 that those steps would stop at our door. But, directly after, 
 I felt that very improbable, for who was there that would 
 come ^uoh a night? Papa was up north with mamma; 
 
 489 ) 
 
Nell and Floy were visiting Aunt Edna' and me, the only 
 ones home, save the servants. Neither of us had as yet a 
 lover so devoted or so demented as to come out, if he had 
 anywhere to stay in. 
 
 On and past went the steps. Turning away, I drew 
 down the blind, and said: “Some one must be ill, and 
 that was the doctor, surely: for no one else would go out, 
 only those from direst necessity sent.” 
 
 A deep sigh escaped Aunt Edna’s lips, and although 
 partially shaded by her hand, I could see the shadow on 
 the beautiful face had deepened. 
 
 Why my aunt had never married was a mystery to me, 
 for she was lovable in every way, and must have been very 
 beautiful in her youth. Thirty-six she would be next 
 May-day, she had told me. Thirty-six seemed to me, just 
 sixteen, a very great many years to have lived. But aunt 
 always was young to us; and the hint of her being an old 
 maid was always resented, very decidedly, by all her nieces. 
 
 “Aunt Edna,” I said, “tell us a story—a love-story, 
 please.” 
 
 “ Oh, little one, you have read so many! And what can 
 I tell you more? ” she answered, gently. 
 
 “Oh, aunty, I want a true story! Do, darling aunty, 
 tell us your own. Tell us why you are blessing our home 
 with your presence, instead of that of some noble man, for 
 noble he must have been to have won your heart, and— 
 hush-sh ! Yes, yes; I know something about somebody, 
 and I must know all. Do, please! ” 
 
 I plead on. I always could do more with Aunt Edna 
 than any one else. I was named for her, and many called 
 me like her—“ only not nearly so pretty ” was always 
 odded. 
 
 At last she consented, saying: 
 
 “ Dear girls, to only one before have I given my entire 
 
191 
 
 edna's sacrifice,, 
 
 confidence, and that was my mother. I scarce know why 
 I have yielded to your persuasions, little Edna, save that 
 this night, with its gloom and rain, carries me back long 
 years, and my heart seems to join its pleading with yours, 
 yearning to cast forth some of its fulness, and perchance 
 find relief by pouring into your loving heart its own 
 sorrows. But, darling, I would not cast my shadow over 
 your fair brow, even for a brief time.’ 5 
 
 With her hand still shading her face, Aunt Edna began: 
 
 “Just such a night as this, eighteen years ago, dear 
 child, my fate was decided. The daughter of my mother's 
 dearest friend had been with us about a year. Dearly we 
 all loved the gentle child, for scarcely more than child she 
 was—only sixteen. My mother had taken her from the 
 cold, lifeless form of her mother into her own warm, loving 
 heart, and she became to me as a sister. So fair and frail 
 she was! We all watched her with the tenderest care, 
 guarding her from all that could chill her sensitive nature 
 or wound the already saddened heart. Lilly was her name. 
 Oh, what a delicate white lily she was when we first brought 
 her to our home; but after a while she was won from her 
 sorrow, and grew into a maiden of great beauty. Still, 
 with child-like, winning ways. 
 
 “ Great wells of love were in her blue eyes—violet hue 
 he called them. Often I wondered if any one’s gaze would 
 linger on my dark eyes when hers were near? Her pale 
 golden hair was pushed off her broad forehead and fell in 
 heavy waves far down below her graceful shoulders and 
 over her black dress. Small delicately-formed features, a 
 complexion so fair and clear that it seemed transparent. 
 In her blue eyes there was always such a sad, wistful look; 
 this, and the gentle smile that ever hovered about her lips, 
 gave an expression of mingled sweetness and sorrow that 
 was very touching. You may imagine now how beautiful 
 she was. 
 
192 
 
 edna’s sacrifice. 
 
 “ Her mother had passed from earth during the absence 
 of Lilly’s father. Across the ocean the sorrowful tidings 
 were born to him. He was a naval officer. Lilly was 
 counting the days ere she should see him. The good news 
 had come, that soon he would be with her. At last the 
 day arrived, but oh! what a terrible sorrow it brought. 
 When her heart was almost bursting with joy, expecting 
 every moment to be clasped in those dear arms—a tele¬ 
 graphic despatch was handed in. Eagerly she caught it, 
 tore it open, read—and fell lifeless to the floor. 
 
 “ Oh ! the fearful, crushing words. We read, not of his 
 coming to Lilly, but of his going to her, his wife, in heaven. 
 Yes, truly an orphan the poor girl was then. 
 
 “ In vain proved all efforts to restore her to conscious¬ 
 ness. Several times, when she had before fainted, mother 
 was the only physician needed. But that night she shook 
 her head and said : 
 
 “ ‘We must have a doctor, and quickly.’ 
 
 “ It was a terrible night. Our doctor was very remote. 
 Your father suggested another, near by. 
 
 “ Dr.-, well, never mind his name. Your father said 
 
 he had lately known him, and liked him much. 
 
 “ Through the storm he came, and by his skilful treat¬ 
 ment Lilly was soon restored to consciousness, but not to 
 health. A low nervous fever set in, and many days we 
 watched with fearful hearts. Ah! during those days I 
 learned to look too eagerly for the doctor’s coming. In¬ 
 deed, he made his way into the hearts of all in our home. 
 After the dreaded crisis had passed, and we knew that 
 Lilly would be spared to us, the doctor told mother he 
 should have to prescribe for me. I had grown pale, from 
 confinement in the sick-room, and he must take me for a 
 drive, that the fresh air should bring the roses back to my 
 eheeks. Willingly mother consented. After that I often 
 
Edna's sacrifice. 
 
 193 
 
 went. When Lilly was able to come down-stairs, this 
 greatest pleasure of my life then was divided with her. 
 One afternoon I stood on the porch with her, waiting while 
 the doctor arranged something about the harness. 
 
 “‘Oh! how I wish it was my time to go!’ she whis-» 
 pered. 
 
 “‘Well, darling, it shall be your time. I can go to¬ 
 morrow. Run, get your hat and wraps,’ I said, really glad 
 to give any additional pleasure to this child of many 
 sorrows. 
 
 “ ‘ No, no, that would not be fair. And, Edna, don’t you 
 know that to-morrow I would be so sorry if I went to-day? 
 I do not mean to be selfish, but, oh, indeed I cannot help 
 it! I am wishing every time to go. Not that I care for a 
 ride—” She hesitated, flushed, and whispered : ‘ I like to 
 be with my doctor. Don’t you, Edna? Oh! I wish he 
 was my father, or brother, or cousin—just to be with us all 
 the time, you know.’ 
 
 “Just then the doctor came for me, and I had to leave 
 her. As we drove off I looked back a^nd kissed my hand 
 to her, saying: 
 
 “ ‘ Dear little thing! I wish she was going with us.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I do not,’ the doctor surprised me by saying. 
 
 “ I raised my eyes inquiringly to his. In those beautiful, 
 earnest eyes I saw something that made me profoundly 
 happy. I could not speak. After a moment he added: 
 
 “ ‘ She is a beautiful, winning child, and I enjoy her 
 company. But when with her, I feel as if it was my duty 
 to devote myself entirely to her—in a word, to take care of 
 her, or, I should say, to care for her only. And this after¬ 
 noon, of all others, I do not feel like having Lilly with 
 us.’ 
 
 “That afternoon was one of the happiest of my life. 
 Although not a word of love passed his lips. I knew it 
 
194 
 
 edna’s sacrifice. 
 
 filled his heart, and was for me. He told me of his home^ 
 his relatives, his past life. Of his mother he said : 
 
 “ ‘When you know her, you will love her dearly. 5 
 
 “ He seemed to be sure that I should know her. And 
 then—ah, well, I thought so too, then. 
 
 “ Lilly was waiting for us when we returned. He chided 
 her for being out so late. It was quite dark. Tears filled 
 her eyes as she raised them to his and said: 
 
 “ ‘ Don’t be angry. I could not help watching. Oh, 
 why did you stay so long ? I thought you would never 
 come back. I was afraid something had happened—that 
 the horse had run away, or—’ 
 
 ‘“Angry I could not be with you, little one. But I 
 don’t want you to get sick again. Come, now, smile away 
 your tears and fears! Your friend is safe and with you 
 again,’ the doctor answered. 
 
 Taking her hand, he led her into the parlor. 
 
 “ He had not understood the cause of her tears. Only 
 for him she watched and wept. 
 
 “ c Do stay, 5 she plead, when her doctor was going. 
 
 “ He told her he could not, then ; there was another call 
 he must make, but would return after a while. 
 
 “She counted the minutes, until she should see him 
 again. Never concealing from any of us how dearly slia 
 loved him. She was truly as guileless as a child of six 
 years. 
 
 “ From the first of her acquaintance with him, she had 
 
 declared ‘her doctor’ was like her father. Mother, too, 
 
 admitted the resemblance was verv decided. 
 
 •/ 
 
 “ This it was, I think, that first made him so dear to her. 
 
 “ Several times, after the doctor returned that evening, 
 I saw he sought opportunity to speak to me, unheard by 
 others. But Lilly was always near. 
 
 “Ah! it was better so. Better that from his own lips I 
 
edna’s sacrifice. 
 
 195 
 
 heard not those words he would have spoken. Doubly 
 hard would have been the trial. Oh, that night when he said, 
 * good-by ! 5 He slipped in my hand a little roll of paper. 
 As Lilly still stood at the window, watching as long as she 
 could see him, I stole away to open the paper. Then, for 
 a while, I forgot Lilly, aye, forgot everything, in my great 
 happiness. He loved me! On my finger sparkled the 
 beautiful diamond—my engagement ring—to be worn on 
 the morrow, 4 if I could return his love, 5 he said. 
 
 “ Quickly I hid my treasures away, his note, and the 
 ring—Lilly was coming. 
 
 “ She was not yet strong, and soon tired. I nelped her 
 to get off her clothes, and as she kissed me good-night, she 
 said: 
 
 “ 1 1 wish we had a picture of him—don’t you ? 5 
 
 “ ‘ Who, dear ? 5 I asked. 
 
 “ 4 My doctor! Who else? You tease. You knew well 
 enough, 5 she answered, as she nestled her pretty head 
 closer to mine. 
 
 “Soon she was sleeping and dreaming of him. Sweet 
 dreams at first I knew they were; for soft smiles flitted 
 over her face. 
 
 “ I could not sleep. A great fear stole in upon my han- 
 piness. Did not Lilly love him too? How would she re¬ 
 ceive the news which soon must reach her? Was her love 
 such as mine? Such as is given to but one alone? Or 
 only as a brother did she love him? I must hnoiv how it 
 was. Heaven grant that joy for one would not bring sor¬ 
 row to the other, I prayed. I had not long to wait. Her 
 dreams became troubled. Her lips quivered and trembled, 
 and then with a cry of agony she started up. 
 
 “ ‘ Gone, gone, gone! 55 she sobbed. 
 
 “ It was many minutes ere I succeeded in calming and 
 making her understand 5 twas but a dream. 
 
196 
 
 edna’s sacrifice. 
 
 “‘ Oh ! but so real, so dreadfully real. I thought he did 
 not care for me. That he had gone and left me, and they 
 told me he was married! 7 
 
 “ Telling this, she began to sob again. 
 
 “ J Lilly, dear, tell me truly—tell your sister, your very 
 best friend—how it is you love your doctor ? 7 I asked. 
 
 “‘Plow? 7 she returned. ‘Oh, Edna, more than all the 
 world! He is all that I have lost and more; and if he 
 should die, or I should lose him, I would not wish to live. 
 I could not live. He loves me a little, does he not, Edna?’ 
 
 “I could not reply. Just then there was a terrible 
 struggle going on in my heart. That must be ended, the 
 victory won ere I could speak. She waited for my answer 
 and then said, eagerly: 
 
 “ ‘ Oh, speak, do! What are you thinking about?’ 
 
 “ Pressing back the sigh—back and far down into the 
 poor heart—I gave her the sweet, and kept the bitter part, 
 when I could answer. 
 
 “‘Yes, dear, I do think he loves you a little now, and 
 will, by-and-by, love you dearly. God grant he may ! 7 
 
 “‘Oh, you darling Edna! You have made me so happy!’ 
 she cried, kissing me; and still caressing me she fell 
 asleep. 
 
 “ Next morning I enclosed the ring, with only these 
 words: 
 
 “ ‘ Forgive if I cause you sorrow, and believe me your 
 true friend. I return the ring that I am not free to ac¬ 
 cept. 7 
 
 “ I intended that my reply should mislead him, when I 
 wrote that I was not free, and thus to crush any hope that 
 might linger in his heart. While at breakfast that morn¬ 
 ing, we received a telegram that grandma was extremely 
 ill, and wanted me. Thus, fate seemed to forward my 
 
Edna’s sacrifice. 
 
 197 
 
 plans. I had thought to go away for a while. I told 
 mother all. How her dear heart ached for me! Yet she 
 dared not say aught against my decision. She took charge 
 of the note for the doctor, and by noon I was on my jour¬ 
 ney. Two years passed ere I returned home. Mother 
 wrote me but little news of either Lilly or her doctor after 
 the first letter, telling that my note was a severe shock and 
 great disappointment. Three or four months elapsed 
 before grandma was strong enough for me to leave her. 
 An opportunity at that time presented for my going to 
 Europe. I wanted such an entire change, and gladly ac¬ 
 cepted. Frequently came letters from Lilly. For many 
 months they were filled with doubts and anxiety; but 
 after a while came happier and shorter ones. Ah, she 
 had only time to be with him, and to think in his absence 
 of his coming again. 
 
 u When I was beginning to tire of all the wonders and 
 grandeur of the old world, and nothing would still the 
 longing for home, the tidings came they were married, 
 Lilly and her doctor, and gone to his Western home to take 
 charge of the patients of his uncle, who had retired from 
 practice. Then I hastened back, and ever since, dear girls, 
 I have been contented, finding much happiness in trying 
 to contribute to that of those so dear. Now, little Edna, 
 you have my only love-story, its beginning and ending.” 
 
 “ But, aunty, do tell me his name,” I said. “ Indeed, it 
 is not merely idle curiosity. I just feel as if I must know 
 it—that it is for something very important. Now you 
 need not smile. I’m very earnest, and I shall not sleep 
 until I know. I really felt a presentiment that if I knew 
 his name it might in some way effect the conclusion of the 
 story.” 
 
 “ Well, my child, I may as well tell you. Dr. Graham 
 it was—Percy Graham,” Aunt Edna answered, low. 
 
/ 
 
 198 edna’s sacrifice. 
 
 “ Ah! did I not tell you? It was not curiosity. Listen, 
 aunty mine. While you were away last winter, papa re¬ 
 ceived a paper from St. Louis; he handed it to me, pointing 
 to an announcement. But I will run get it. He told me 
 to show it to you, and I forgot. I did not dream of all 
 this.” 
 
 From my scrap-book I brought the slip, and Aunt Edna 
 read: 
 
 “ Died. —Suddenly, of heart disease, on the morning of 
 the 15th, Lilly, wife of Doctor Percy Graham, in the 34th 
 year of her age.” 
 
 Aunt Edna remained holding the paper, without speak¬ 
 ing, for some minutes; then, handing it back to me, she 
 said, softly, as if talking to her friend : 
 
 “ Dear Lilly! Thank heaven, I gave to you the best I 
 had to give, and caused you nought but happiness. God 
 is merciful! Had he been taken, and you left, how could 
 we have comforted you?” And then, turning to me, she 
 said: “ Nearly a year it is since Lilly went to heaven. ’Tis 
 strange I have not heard of this.” 
 
 “ ‘Tis strange from him you have not heard,” I thought; 
 “ and stranger still ’twill be if he comes not when the year 
 is over. For surely he must know that you are free—” 
 But I kept my thoughts, and soon after kissed aunty good¬ 
 night. 
 
 One month passed, and the year was out. And some¬ 
 body was in our parlor, making arrangements to carry 
 away Aunt Edna. I knew it was he, when he met me at 
 the hall door, and said: 
 
 “ Edna—Miss Linden! can it be ? ” 
 
 “Yes and no, sir—both—Edna Linden; but, Doctor 
 Graham, not your Edna. You will find her in the parlor,” 
 I answered, saucily, glad and sorry, both, at his coming. 
 
199 
 
 EDNA'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 Ah, she welcomed him with profound joy, I know. He 
 knew all; papa had told him. And if he loved the beauti¬ 
 ful girl, he then worshipjDed that noble woman. 
 
 “ Thank God ! Mine at last! ” I heard him say, with 
 fervent joy, as I passed the door, an hour after. 
 
 How beautiful she was, when, a few weeks after, she 
 became his very own. I stood loside her and drew off 
 her glove. How happy he looked as he placed the heavy 
 gold circlet on her finger! How proudly he bore her down 
 the crowded church aisle! 
 
 Ah, little Lilly was no doubt his dear and cherished 
 wife. But this one, ’twas plain to sc&» was the one lov© of 
 his life. 
 
WHO WAS THE THIEF? 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 F RED LORING’S toilet was at length completed, and 
 turning from the glass, he said: 
 
 “ Well, I’m off now, Nellie. Good-by.” 
 
 “At last! Excuse me, Fred, but just now quietness is 
 more desirable than your society. It is impossible to get 
 baby to sleep while you are flying about the room. She 
 sees you, and wants to get to you,” answered Nellie. 
 
 “All right. I’ll get out of the way. By-by, baby.” 
 
 And kissing the little one, Fred hurried out. 
 
 Ten or fifteen minutes passed. Baby was quiet at last, 
 almost asleep, when the door opened, and in rushed Fred 
 again. And up started baby, with a shout of welcome. 
 An impatient look came into Nellie’s eyes, and the tone to 
 her words: 
 
 “ Oh, Fred, I had almost gotten her to sleep. And now 
 see! And I am so tired. What has brought you back so 
 soon ? 
 
 “ Well, well, I’m sorry. But I left my revolver behind. 
 I guess she’ll soon be quiet again,” Fred said, unlocking 
 the drawer and taking out his revolver. 
 
 “ Fred, I declare I never did see such a man. You can¬ 
 not leave the house without being armed. Do you forget 
 there is a law against carrying concealed weapons ? ” 
 
 “ I remember to be on my guard, and prepared to defend 
 
 ( 200 ) 
 
WHO WAS THE THIEF? 
 
 201 
 
 myself if it be necessary. Every day we read accounts of 
 persons being robbed, knocked down, and such like. I 
 tell you, Nellie, sensible persons go armed always.” 
 
 “ Perhaps, Fred. But I think the nervous and sus¬ 
 picious persons are more likely to. Indeed, I never like to 
 see you carrying off your revolver. I’m in constant fear 
 of something dreadful happening.” 
 
 “ But never in dread of any one murdering and robbing 
 me. Of course not! ” Fred snapped forth. 
 
 a Oh, Fred! You are so quick and suspicious of every 
 one, that my great fear is you’ll hurt the wrong person " 
 some time ! ” said Nellie, with a really anxious look on her 
 pretty face. 
 
 “ Indeed I am not aware of ever having gotten hold of 
 the wrong person. I think you are calling on your im¬ 
 agination for facts, Mrs. Loring! ” Fred said angrily. 
 
 “Now, Fred, to defend myself I shall have to point to 
 facts. Do you forget catching hold of poor old Uncle Tom, 
 and choking him so he could not explain he was carrying 
 the clothes to his wife to wash, instead of being a thief, as 
 you supposed ? And—” 
 
 “And will I ever forget your handing me over to a 
 policeman, for having attempted to pick your pocket in the 
 streetcar?” exclaimed a bright, merry-looking girl, who 
 entered the room during Nellie’s attempt to defend herself 
 from Fred’s accusation. 
 
 “ Oh, Fan, don’t, for mercy’s sake. I cry quarter. 
 Two at a time is more than I can stand. And besides, I 
 had hoped that you would not have exposed that miser¬ 
 able mistake! ” Fred said, with a reproachful look. 
 
 “ I intended to keep the secret. But really, Fred, I’ve 
 been almost dying to have a good laugh with Nellie over 
 it. And to-night the opportunity was too tempting to 
 resist.” 
 
202 
 
 WHO WAS THE THIEF? 
 
 “ Mercy, Fan ! If you tell Nellie, I’ll never hear the last 
 of it.” 
 
 “ Oh, I must. It is too late to recede. Nellie will im¬ 
 agine it worse, if possible, than it really is. But I’ll not 
 prolong your agony. I’ll be as brief as possible,” said 
 Fannie. 
 
 And amidst the cries of “ Don’t! don’t! ” and “Yes, do, 
 do! ” Fannie began. 
 
 “ The day I reached here, just as I came out of the de« 
 pot, I spied my beloved and respected cousin Fred enter’ 
 ing the street car. I hurried up, and got in immediately 
 after him. Even if my veil had been raised I could hardly 
 have expected him to know me, as I have changed much 
 in five years. As it was, my face was completely hidden. 
 The car was much crowded, many standing—I next be¬ 
 hind Fred. I was well laden with lots of little packages, 
 so the idea struck me to drop a few into Fred’s overcoat 
 pockets. Without discovery I put what I wished into one, 
 and was about slipping my porte-monnaie into the other, 
 when my hand was caught with such a grip that I screamed 
 right out. At the same time Fred exclaimed, ‘ Here is a 
 pickpocket! ” And of course there was a policeman there, 
 as none was needed. I was too frightened to speak for an 
 instant. At length I found voice enough to say to the 
 officer, who was making his way toward me, ‘ The gentle¬ 
 man will find he is mistaken in a moment.’ 
 
 “After the first fright, I was really amused, notwith¬ 
 standing the mortifying situation. By that time Fred had 
 drawn forth my porte-monnaie. Nodding to the policeman, 
 he said: 
 
 “'‘An old dodge. Putting into my pocket what she has 
 taken from some one else. Has any one here lost this ? ’ ho 
 asked, holding up my porte-monnaie. 
 
 “No one claimed it. I managed to get off my veil then, 
 
/ 
 
 WHO WAS THE THIEF? 203 
 
 t^at J had been tugging at. I had gotten a lady in the 
 depot >o tie it tightly behind, as it was blowing a perfect 
 gale v f hen I arrived. All eyes were on me then, of course. 
 And the officer, not recognizing an old offender, and not a 
 very guilty-looking young one, hesitated. I looked 
 eagerly at Fred, to see if he would not recognize me, but 
 he did not. There was a very embarrassing pause then, 
 that had to be ended; so I said, not trying to restrain my 
 smV 3s: 
 
 ‘ If you will open that porte-monnaie, Mr. Loring, you 
 y \II see my card. I thought my acquaintance would jus¬ 
 tify my loading you with some of my bundles. If you 
 will notice, your other pocket is full.’ 
 
 u Every one waited eagerly the result. Quickly Fred 
 did my bidding. You may imagine his look, when he 
 exclaimed: 
 
 “ ‘ Fannie Loring! Bless my soul, coz, can you ever for¬ 
 give me? But how could I know you? I’ve not seen you 
 since you were a child.’ 
 
 “ There was a shout of laughter heard then, in which 
 Fred and I joined. But Fred’s was not a very hearty 
 laugh; and I think he was glad to get out of that car, for 
 he made me walk at least three times as far as ever you 
 and I walk when we leave the car.” 
 
 Nellie was almost convulsed with laughter, which baby 
 seemed to enjoy very much. And Fred exclaimed: 
 
 “ It was not half as bad as you have made it out, Fan. 
 And just for a punishment for your laughing so, Nellie, I 
 hope baby will not go to sleep for hours. I’m off now.” 
 
 Merry rippling laughter followed him. And Fred ran 
 down the stairs, and out of the house, almost hoping 
 somebody might attempt to rob, or murder him even, so 
 that his revolver might prove of great avail, and thus 
 silence Nellie, who was ever talking about what she called 
 
204 
 
 WHO WAS THE THIEF? 
 
 his suspicious nature, when it was only necessary caution, 
 he thought. 
 
 o 
 
 Soon baby was sleeping soundly, notwithstanding 
 Fred's wish to the contrary. And Nellie, putting her into 
 the crib, went to the bureau to arrange her hair. 
 
 “ Why, Fred has gone without his watch! 55 she ex¬ 
 claimed. “ I don’t think he ever did that in his life before. 
 I wonder he has not been back again before this! ” 
 
 The hours passed swiftly by. Fannie, with her merry 
 heart, fully compensating Nellie for Fred’s absence. Eleven 
 o’clock came before they imagined it near so late. And 
 just then they heard the hall door close, and a moment 
 after Fred entered the room, and in an excited voice ex¬ 
 claimed : 
 
 “ Now, ladies, perhaps you will admit the good of carry¬ 
 ing a revolver, when I tell you that to-night I have been 
 robbed.” 
 
 “ Robbed! ” exclaimed Nellie and Fannie simulta¬ 
 neously. 
 
 “ Yes, robbed. But I did not stay so, many minutes, 
 thanks to my revolver! Listen, and I’ll tell you all about 
 it. On my way home I turned Gray’s corner into Four¬ 
 teenth street. You know how dark and dismal it is about 
 there—no lights. Well, as I turned, a fellow came rushing 
 along, knocked against and nearly sent me down. And 
 saying quickly, ‘ Excuse me, sir,’ hurried on. I suspected 
 what it was—a dodge they have when relieving a man of 
 his watch or pocket-book. I hastened to feel for my watch* 
 It was gone.” 
 
 “ Why, Fred, your watch—” 
 
 “ Stop! Don’t interrupt me. Wait until I’ve done.” 
 
 The girls exchanged looks—mirthful first, anxious after. 
 
 “ In a second I was after him. Presenting my revolver, 
 I bade him hand me the watch. He resisted,, I covered 
 
WHO WAS THE THIEF? 205 
 
 him with my pistol, and spoke again in a tone which con¬ 
 vinced him I was in a dangerous mood. 
 
 “ ‘ Hand me that watch.’ 
 
 “ Out it came; and without taking a second look at me, 
 he left. And thanks to my little beauty here,” tapping 
 his revolver, a I am home again, no worse off than when I 
 started. Now, what say you? ” 
 
 “Oh, FredJ Oh, my dear, what have you done ? Oh, 
 you have robbed that man of his watch! Yours is on the 
 bureau. You left it home,” Nellie cried, in a voice of real 
 agitation. 
 
 “What? No! Surely not!” exclaimed Fred, growing 
 very red, and starting toward the bureau. 
 
 Fannie handed to Fred his own watch, at the same time 
 fairly shaking with the laughter she had tried so hard to 
 suppress. 
 
 “Oh, Fred, forgive me. I’m only human; I must laugh 
 or die.” 
 
 Peal after peal came from the merry girl, who could not 
 restrain herself, although Nellie looked so reproachfully, 
 and Fred really angrily at her ; the former saying: 
 
 “Indeed, Fannie, I’m too much frightened to laugh.” 
 
 Fred was too mortified to say another word for some 
 time. At length, turning to Fannie, who had grown a 
 little quiet, he snappishly said: 
 
 “ Pray, don’t stop! I’m very happy to afford you so 
 much amusement.” 
 
 Of course Fannie began anew; and Nellie trying to stop 
 her by looks and motions, asked: 
 
 “What shall you do, Fred?” 
 
 “It is not a matter of such vital importance that you 
 need look so worried, Nellie. I’ll go to the police head¬ 
 quarters, explain the matter, and leave the watch. That 
 will be the end of it,” said Fred, trying to assume a light, 
 careless tone. 
 
208 
 
 WHO WAS THE THIEF? 
 
 Nellie hoped it might be the end of it; but still fearful 
 of something unpleasant, asked: 
 
 “ Is it too late to-night to go, Fred? ” 
 
 “ Certainly it is,” Fred answered. 
 
 Seeing Nellie’s face still retain its anxious and frightened 
 expression, Fred broke out laughing himself, saying: 
 
 u You look as much frightened, Nell, as I imagine that 
 man looked when I went for his watch.” 
 
 Next morning Fred was longer than usual getting off 
 from home, and all Nellie’s urging haste seemed to have 
 the tendency to retard instead of accelerating his motions. 
 But at last, to her great relief, he was off. After getting a 
 few rods from home, he drew forth the stolen watch, and 
 found of course it had run down. Having no key to fit it, 
 he approached a jewelry store, intending to have it wound 
 up. Re had failed to notice the very particular attention 
 with which a policeman was regarding him. Just as he 
 was about to enter the store, he was tapped on the shoul¬ 
 der. Turning, he beheld the officer, a total stranger to 
 Fred, so he knew it was not a bit of use to explain the case 
 to him. So to attract as little notice as possible, he walked 
 quietly along with his not very agreeable companion until 
 they reached the police head-quarters. 
 
 There he began his explanation. All were strange faces 
 around him, on which he saw unmistakable signs of merri¬ 
 ment when he said it was “a mistake.” And to his im¬ 
 mense surprise, after he had handed over the dreadful 
 watch, and was turning to leave, he was made to under¬ 
 stand he was a 'prisoner —the accusation, “ Robbery and 
 assault, with intent to kill! ” 
 
 He sank on the bench for a moment, so overwhelmed with 
 surprise and mortification that he could with difficulty 
 collect his senses enough to know what to do. Just then 
 a gentleman entered, and said to an officer near: 
 
WHO WAS THE THIEF? 
 
 207 
 
 “I was surprised to hear you had caught the rascal 
 eo speedily. Where is the scoundrel? What does he 
 say ? ” 
 
 “ That it was all a mistake! ” answered the officer, with a 
 very significant smile. “ There he is,” pointing to Fred. 
 
 “ Of course—the villain! And if I had been so un¬ 
 fortunate as not to have had a watch to hand over, he 
 would have murdered and robbed me of what I might 
 have of any value. The murderous rascal!—Ah ! how are 
 you, Loring? You here! ” advancing and shaking Freds 
 hand cordially, and continuing^ “ Show me that cut-throat! 
 Which is he ? ” 
 
 The expression on Fred’s countenance may possibly be 
 imagined, but I cannot describe it. And when, in answer 
 to the call, “ Prisoner, stand up,” he arose, his friend’s—• 
 the plaintiff’s—surprise was stupendous for a moment; 
 and then breaking into a hearty chuckle, he exclaimed: 
 
 “Of course now I know it was a mistake.” 
 
 The dignity of the place was forgotten by all then, and 
 never was such a shout of laughter heard before within 
 those walls. But Fred could not join in it, to save him. 
 He had too lately stood in the place of an individual 
 bearing quite too many opprobrious epithets, to feel very 
 light-hearted. 
 
 He returned home to relieve Nellie’s mind, telling her 
 it was all settled—she need have now no more anxiety 
 about it. But he never told her how it was settled. One 
 thing, however, she noticed—he was not so fond of his 
 revolver’s companionship as he used to be. And once she 
 heard him say: 
 
 “ If the law was more strenuous with regard to tho 
 carrying of concealed weapons, there would be fewer 
 criminal indictments.” 
 
THE GHOST. 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADE* 
 
 P EEPING through the leaves of the vine-covered 
 bower, and watching eagerly the path through the 
 woods, was a beautiful little maiden. An anxious look 
 was in her deep blue eyes, as pressing her hands over 
 her heart, as if to stop its heavy beating, she said: 
 
 “ Oh, why does he not come ? How long a time! If 
 he had good news, I know he would come quicker. Oh, I 
 have not a mite of hope! ” 
 
 The pretty lips quivered then, and she stepped back, 
 and sank on the mossy seat. 
 
 A moment after a sound, slight as the dropping of 
 leaves, caught her ear. She sprang up, and for an instant 
 a bright light shone in her eyes, but quickly died away, as 
 the slow, heavy step came nearer, bringing to sight a tall, 
 noble-looking young man, whose face, if less stern, would 
 have been very handsome. 
 
 Without speaking, he clasped her outstretched hand 
 and drew her within his arms, shaking his head sadly. 
 
 “ I felt it was so, or you would have come sooner,” the 
 maiden said, resting her head against his shoulder. 
 
 a I had little, if any, hope, Susie. I went this last time 
 because you bade me to.” 
 
 u What did father say, Frank? ” 
 
 “Over and over the same old story of having, since your 
 
 ( 208 ) 
 
THE GHOST. 
 
 209 
 
 babyhood, intended you to be the wife of his friend’s son. 
 Oh, if I were wealthier, it would be all right, I know,” 
 Frank said, his dark eyes flashing. 
 
 “ Don’t talk so, dear, please. I do not like to hear you 
 impute a wrong motive to my father. I will never, never 
 listen for one moment to any words of love from George 
 Forrester, or any other man but you, Frank. So you may 
 be sure, if papa will not let me marry you, I will never 
 marry at all,” Susie said, her eyes full of tears, looking up 
 to his. 
 
 “ Susie, I have made three appeals to your father during 
 the year past; each time finding him, if possible, more de¬ 
 termined to oppose our happiness. I will never humiliate 
 myself again, and he will never yield. Now what will 
 you do ? ” 
 
 “ Wait, hope and pray. I can do nothing more,” Susie 
 answered, in a tearful voice. 
 
 “ Yes, Susie, darling, you can, and secure our immediate 
 happiness. You can come with me, be my own true wife, 
 love.” 
 
 “No—no—no. I cannot. I should not secure our hap¬ 
 piness. I should be miserable, and make you so.” 
 
 “ Then I have nothing more to hope for. He will not 
 give you to me, and you will not come. Oh, Susie, how 
 can you send me off? You know you are all the world 
 to me! If I lose you, I lose everything. I am alone in 
 the world. There are many loved ones to comfort your 
 father, until he comes to his better nature and calls you 
 back to his heart. Susie, am I to leave you forever? ” 
 
 The beautiful dark eyes were looking into his, filled 
 with so much love. How could she resist? 
 
 “No—no. I shall die, if you leave me—never to come 
 again! Oh, what am I to do? I love you better than my 
 own life. Frank, indeed I do! But, father—oh. how can X 
 
210 
 
 THE GHOST. 
 
 desert him ? He loves me more than the other children. 
 I am the oldest, his first child, and so like what mother 
 was. That is why he loves me so. And now she has gone, 
 I should stay—” 
 
 “And break your heart and mine, too, Susie ? ” 
 
 “ If I thought, Frank, you would not mind it very 
 long—” 
 
 “You would give me up! And, in time, get into your 
 father’s way of thinking, and end by marrying the man 
 he wants you to,” Frank said, withdrawing his arm and 
 turning away with a great sigh. 
 
 “ Oh, Frank, how can you talk to me so? ” 
 
 “ Well, Susie, it is useless prolonging our sorrow. I had 
 better say good-by, and go forever.” 
 
 “ No, no, Frank, dear love. Oh ! what am I to do? ” 
 
 “ Be happy, my own, and make me so. Be my wife 
 
 before I return to W-. Go with me. Susie, your 
 
 mother loved me. I know, if here, she would plead for 
 me.” 
 
 “Yes, she loved you, and perhaps in her blessed home 
 she will pity me, and win for me forgiveness, alike from 
 heavenly as earthly father, if longer my heart cannot re¬ 
 sist my love,” Susie sobbed, dropping her golden head on 
 her lover’s bosom and promising all he wished. 
 
 “ The last night at home,” she said. “ On the morrow 
 I must go forth, to return no more, the loving, dutiful 
 child. Should he ever consent to have me come back, I 
 can never be again what I once was to his heart. I shall 
 have broken the trust he held in me,” Susie moaned. 
 
 Tenderly the brother and sister were ministered to, her 
 hand resting on each little head, as their lisping voices 
 followed hers in the evening prayer. Willie and Emma 
 arose, their demure faces lifted to receive the good-night 
 kiss. But Rosie, the two-and-a-half-year baby, the dying 
 
THF GHOST. 
 
 211 
 
 mother’s sacred charge, wound her tiny arms about the 
 elder sister, and with baby-like perversity hung on, 
 lisping: 
 
 “ Now Susu pay, too. Pease , Susu. Do! ” 
 
 The baby plead; and Susie, raising her eyes to Rosie’s, 
 felt mother, not far away, but near, very near, and plead¬ 
 ing through her child. 
 
 The sunny head was dropped again, and Susie prayed 
 —even as Rosie had begged her. Prayed for guidance to 
 the better way. 
 
 Three pair of little pattering feet were resting. Three 
 rosy faces pressed the downy pillow, and Susie’s evening 
 task was done. 
 
 Gently she stole away. 
 
 “ I will go to father myself, to-night. I will plead with 
 him until he must yield,” Susie said, as cautiously closing 
 the door of the nursery she entered her own room. 
 
 The evening was oppressive, and Susie’s black dress 
 became very uncomfortable. Flitting about, guided by 
 the moonbeams, she sought for something of lighter tex¬ 
 ture. The mourning robe was laid aside, and a dress, 
 white and fleecy, wrapped her slender form. The cluster¬ 
 ing ringlets were smoothed back, and rolled in a heavy 
 coil high on the back of her head. 
 
 “Now I will go down. Father will be alone at this 
 hour, and—” She paused, raised her sweet eyes upward, 
 and clasping her hands she murmured, “ Mother in heaven, 
 plead for me.” 
 
 Noiselessly she opened the door and glanced into the 
 room. Pier father sat with his back toward her, leaning 
 on a table over which were scattered books and papers. In 
 his hand he held the picture of her mother. She drew 
 back a little, still, however, standing within the door. 
 She dared not interrupt the sacred privacy of the houn 
 
21 2 
 
 THE GHOST. 
 
 The rustle of her garments, light as it was, must have 
 caught his ear, for his bowed head was raised. 
 
 “Mary! my wife! my own!” he cried, starting forward, 
 with extended arms. “ Thank God for granting me one 
 glimpse of you again! ” 
 
 Susie, awed and trembling, raised her eyes to see 
 clothed as in life, the same sweet, gentle face, the rippling 
 hair, caught back from the smooth, clear brow. 
 
 “ Mother! ” she breathed forth. 
 
 The room was lighted only by the moonbeams; but the 
 vision was plainly seen. Another eager glance, and Susie 
 stole away to her own room, and sank almost fainting into 
 her mother’s chair. A little while, and grown calmer, she 
 opened her eyes, to see again, directly in front of her, the 
 same vision. 
 
 She started forward, stretching out her arms, and calk 
 ing softly, “ Mother.” 
 
 Nearer—nearer she drew, until, face to face, she stood 
 beside the large mirror in front of which she had seated 
 herself. 
 
 Unwittingly in one of her mother’s dresses she had 
 robed herself, and gathered her curls in the manner her 
 mother was accustomed to. 
 
 “How very, very like her I am! Yes, now I know: 
 father saw me in the mirror opposite which I stood. Well, 
 I will not break his sweet delusion. I meant it not, 
 Heaven knows. Oh, if mother could only come to him—• 
 in dreams, perhaps—to plead for me! I cannot desert him, 
 I cannot ; I dare not! But Frank—oh, how can I give him 
 up! I will give up neither, but clinging to both loved ones, 
 will trust to Heaven for a happy decision.” 
 
 With this determination she sank to sleep, sweet and 
 Undisturbed. 
 
 Early next morning, as usual, she was in the breakfast- 
 
THE GHOST. 
 
 213 
 
 room, ministering to the little ones clustering around her. 
 The father’s frown had lost its accustomed sternness, as he 
 stood regarding his eldest child. A gentle, sympathetic 
 light was in his eyes as they rested on the sweet face grown 
 older, much, in those days of anxious care. How matronly 
 she looked ! So patiently listening to, and answering every 
 wish of the little ones. 
 
 At last they were all satisfied; and Susie seeing, as she 
 thought, her father deeply interested in the morning paper, 
 stole away to the trysting-place. 
 
 “ I cannot leave him, Frank. Indeed, I never can with¬ 
 out his blessing resting on me. No, no! ” she cried, as she 
 saw the disappointed and stern expression of her lover’s 
 face, “ I have tried, in vain, to make my mind up to it. 
 How can I give up either? loving you both so well.” 
 
 “You have trifled with me, Susie; you have broken 
 your promise, too. You will, most likely, never see me 
 after this morning, if I go from you. Are you determined? ” 
 
 “ Yes, dear, dear Frank, I am determined not to go 
 unless father blesses and bids me go. I will trust my 
 happiness to him, and God, who ruleth all things/' Susie 
 answered, looking very sorrowful, notwithstanding her 
 faith. 
 
 “ Then, good-by.” 
 
 She raised her face, pale and pleading, to his • 
 
 “ Kiss me good-by, Frank, and say, 4 God bless me/ 
 please,” she whispered. 
 
 He did as she pleaded, but there was an injured air in 
 his manner. As he parted from her, she sprang after him, 
 crying: 
 
 “ Forgive me, Frank, if I have wounded you. Know 
 that to me it is worse. One little parting look of love, 
 darling! ” 
 
 \ 
 
214 
 
 THE GHOST. 
 
 “ Oh, Susie, how can you ? ” He pressed her again to his 
 heart, looked lovingly enough : but his eyes, as plain as 
 words could, repeated Tennyson’s lines: 
 
 “ Trust me all in all, 
 
 Or not at all.” 
 
 And^ determined to make one more appeal, he said. 
 
 “Susie, darling! love! trust me for happiness. You 
 will never repent it. Come! ” 
 
 “ No, no. Go ! ” 
 
 He turned off quickly, angrily then; and Susie sank, 
 sobbing, on the grass. 
 
 “ My daughter! ” 
 
 She raised her eyes, heavy with tears. Beside her, with 
 a sad but kind and gentle face, her father stood. With 
 him, a puzzled, doubtful expression on his features, hei 
 lover. 
 
 “ Oh, Frank, I am so—so glad to see you again ! ” she 
 cried, with as much joy beaming in her eyes as though 
 their parting had been for years. 
 
 “ Yes; as it is so very long since you saw him last! ” her 
 father said, with a pleasant smile. 
 
 “ I feared it would be for years, perhaps forever,” Susie 
 said, in a low voice, anxiously regarding her father, and 
 longing to beg an immediate explanation of her lover’s 
 return. 
 
 “ My daughter, what did you intend to do after sending 
 off this young man ? Be a dutiful child, and wed as I wish 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ Never, never, father! I intend to be dutiful only 
 so far as not wedding against your wishes, that is all—to 
 leave the future to God, only praying constantly that 
 some blessed influence may be sent to change your mind 
 and heart,” Susie answered, raising her eyes to his, filled 
 with earnest determination. 
 
/ 
 
 THE GHOST. 215 
 
 n Your prayers must have commenced already, my child. 
 Some influence hath surely been sent—some blessed influ¬ 
 ence, I truly believe. Yes, my child, you will wed to 
 please your father. Here, Frank, take her. I ought to 
 scold you for trying to coax her from me. I heard it all 
 this morning. But I forgive you for her sake, and bless 
 you, too, boy, for the sake of the one in heaven who loved 
 you. There, there, daughter, don’t choke me with your 
 kisses. Take her off, Frank, and make her happy. She is 
 a good child, and will make a true and loving wife. God 
 bless you both, my children ! ” 
 
 And so ended Susie’s intended elopement 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 ** A H, here we are! ” said a pleasant voice, as the driver, 
 
 JT\. having jumped from his seat, opened tne carriage 
 door. 
 
 “Yes, sir, I think so. This is the street and number—- 
 244 or 246, which did you say ? ” 
 
 “ Ton my word, I’ve forgotten, and lost the card,” an¬ 
 swered the pleasant voice. 
 
 “ The name, sir ? I’ll inquire.” 
 
 “ Never mind. I’ll take a look at both houses, and see 
 if I cannot decide. I’m earlier than expected, so I can 
 look well before they come out to welcome me. Just 
 dump my luggage down on the sidewalk, and make off 
 for another job,” said the old gentleman, handing the fare 
 to the man, who soon after drove off. 
 
 “ Well, here are two cottages alike, and very unlike, too. 
 This one is Charley’s home, I know. Why? Because it 
 is newly painted. The fencing all in perfect order. The 
 grounds, although very limited, are prettily fixed up. 
 Flowers and vines—ah, I like the looks of this place! 
 And I’m sure I’m right in fixing it in my mind as 
 Charley’s. Some don’t-carish fellow lives there—loves his 
 pipe, cigars and wine, may be, better than his home, wife 
 and children. Dear, dear ! how those blinds are suffering 
 for a coat of paint! A few dollars would make that fence 
 f 216 ^ 
 
“THE TWO BROTHERS* 
 
 217 
 
 all right. How different that entrance would look with a 
 little rustic seat like this one! I wonder that fellow does 
 not notice how much he might improve his place, if he 
 only did as Charley. But here comes the servant. I’ll 
 get her to let me in.” 
 
 “ Rather sooner than you expected me, ain’t it? Folks 
 not up yet? Just go back and open the door, my girl; 
 let me in, and then tell Mr. Charles Mayfield that his 
 uncle has come ! ” 
 
 “ Oh, sir, you mistake! It is next door Mr. Charles May- 
 field lives,” answered the girl. 
 
 “Next door? No; you mistake, surely. My nephew 
 Charley can’t live there! ” 
 
 “Yes, sir. But his—” What the girl was going to say 
 was stopped by a jovial voice in the next door, calling 
 out: “Uncle, here! How are you?” And a moment 
 more the pleasant old gentleman was caught by both 
 hands and drawn along to the next house. His nephew 
 Charley saying: “ I’m so delighted to see you! Come in! ” 
 
 Into the parlor he was carried, and seated in a very 
 comfortable arm-chair. The interior was more inviting 
 than the outside. It told very plainly that the wife did 
 her duty toward making everything as nice as possible; 
 in a word, making the best of her means. 
 
 A very short time after a sweet-faced little woman en¬ 
 tered, and was presented by Charley, saying: 
 
 “ Here is your niece, uncle.” 
 
 The old gentleman received her welcome greeting by a 
 return of real affection. His heart warmed immediately 
 to his nephew’s wife. She bore the traces of beauty which 
 had been chased away by an over-amount of care, the 
 uncle very soon felt sure. There was an unmistakable 
 look of weariness and anxiety in ner eyes. 
 
 Very soon Neilie, as Charley called her, excused herself 
 
218 
 
 THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 and went out, saying she had a very inexperienced ser¬ 
 vant, and had to oversee and assist her in her work. 
 
 Breakfast was announced, which was one that Uncle 
 Hiram enjoyed, notwithstanding the feeling which w T as up¬ 
 permost in his mind, that the strong, fragrant coffee, the 
 delicate rolls, and the steak which was cooked just as it 
 should be, in a word, all that was so nice, was the result 
 of Nellie’s skilful hands. And she looked so tired and 
 heated when she sat down to do the honors of her table. 
 Again Uncle Hiram noticed that constantly her eyes wan¬ 
 dered from the table to a door which entered the next 
 room, which was partially opened. Her ear seemed 
 strained to catch every sound. At length a little, feeble 
 wail told the cause of her anxiety. 
 
 “Will you excuse me a moment, uncle?” she asked, 
 and continued: “ Our babe was quite sick all night, and I 
 feel anxious about her.” 
 
 A moment or so after Nellie withdrew, the servant 
 came in, bringing a fresh supply of hot rolls. Then Uncle 
 Hiram had a chance of seeing the help Nellie had with 
 her many duties—a half-grown girl. 
 
 “ Inexperienced, truly, inefficient and insufficient,” said 
 the kind old man to himself; and he made a note of that 
 on the tablets of his heart. 
 
 Soon Nellie came back, looking much relieved, and said, 
 smiling: 
 
 “ She seems much better this morning. How these 
 little ones fill our heart with anxiety! I was up with her 
 all night! ” 
 
 Down went another note on Uncle Hiram’s tablets. 
 Awake all night with a sick baby, and up cooking break¬ 
 fast in the morning! No wonder her youth and 
 beauty have been chased away, poor, weary, overworked 
 mother \ 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 219 
 
 u Who lives next door, Charley ? ” asked his uncle, after 
 they had withdrawn from the breakfast-room. 
 
 “ Why, I have a surprise for you—Henry lives there.” 
 
 “ Henry! Henry who ? ” 
 
 a Why, Henry Mayfield, my brother.” 
 
 “ No! Why, the last time I heard from him he w r as in 
 St. Louis.” 
 
 “ Well, he is here now, and has been for five months. 
 His wife’s relatives are all here. And so he having been 
 offered a position in the same firm with me, accepted it. 
 We agreed to keep it as a pleasant little surprise for you.” 
 
 “ Well, I’m glad of it.” 
 
 Just as Uncle Hiram said so the object of their conver- 
 Bation came in. 
 
 Henry Mayfield was not the jovial, merry fellow’ that 
 Charley was, and not likely to be so generally a favorite. 
 But there was an earnestness and determination in his 
 bearing that inspired respect immediately. 
 
 “ Come, uncle! Go in w T ith me to see my wife and little 
 ones,” said Henry, after sitting and talking a while. “ We 
 have a half hour yet before business requires us, and then, 
 if you like, we will go down town together.” 
 
 Henry’s parlor, into which he ushered his uncle, was 
 furnished better than his brother’s; but still it was not so 
 prettily arranged — the “ woman’s touch ” was not so 
 plainly visible. Immediately Henry’s w T ife came in to 
 welcome her husband’s uncle. 
 
 She was a bright little woman, not near so delicately 
 featured as Nellie; but with a youthful, well-preserved 
 look, an easy, quiet, peaceful air about her that made 
 Uncle Hiram feel quite sure, if he stayed her guest a 
 month, it would not put her out a bit. If any extra care 
 or worry came, it was not to her. Some one else’s mind 
 and hands would have to overcome any difficulties. 
 
220 
 
 THE TWO BROTHERS,, 
 
 “ Henry, dear, have our boy brought in to see his uncle,’ 1 
 
 she said. 
 
 “Ah, ha! ” thought Uncle Hiram, “ I see—the shoulders 
 best able to bear the burden of family cares have it. Just 
 as it should be! ” 
 
 A few moments, and the baby-boy was brought in by 
 the nurse and presented to the uncle. Baby, like his 
 mother, looked happy and healthy. 
 
 When they were about leaving for down town, Uncle 
 Hiram heard Henry say: 
 
 “Ada, please order the cook to delay dinner an hour to¬ 
 day. Uve business which will delay me so long.” 
 
 “Very well,” was the smiling reply. 
 
 “A cook and a nurse. That is why Ada looks so calm, 
 healthy and happy. Just as it should be. Poor little, 
 patient, over-worked Nellie! I wonder how it is, both 
 having equal means. I must find out what the trouble 
 is,” said Uncle Hiram to himself. 
 
 Now, Charley was not a drinking man, his uncle felt* 
 sure. He knew, indeed, that when he first grew to man¬ 
 hood he had vowed never to touch rum in any form. 
 
 The dinner at Charley’s was better, if possible, than the 
 breakfast. It was a real treat to the old bachelor, whose 
 life w?s spent in a boarding-house, to partake of such 
 good, healthy fare as Nellie gave him. But always he 
 felt like partaking of it under protest. Nellie—little, 
 weary, tired Nellie—ever filled his mind and heart. At 
 dinner Charley brought forth his ale , declaring it to be 
 “the very best in town.” And after dinner his cigars, 
 “none finer to be found,” he said. 
 
 Now, Uncle Hiram could partake of both without 
 serious disadvantage either to his health or purse. But 
 caring very little for either, he seldom used them. Du¬ 
 ring the evening several gentlemen friends came in to 
 
THE TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 221 
 
 call on Charley’s uncle, and again ale and cigars were 
 put out. 
 
 Uncle Hiram went to calculating. Ale, fifty cents, at 
 least, that day; sometimes less, sometimes more. Make 
 the average half as much—tw T enty-five cents. Cigars ah 
 ways as much; frequently, as that day, treble the amount. 
 In a month it would sum up, to the very lowest, fifteen 
 dollars. And who could tell how much more ? What 
 would not that money, worse than lost, have secured for 
 Charley’s wife and children ? 
 
 Rest, health, peace and length of days, most likely. 
 
 Now, Uncle Hiram knew well enough how it was 
 Charley did not have things beautiful without and around 
 his premises, and why Nellie’s weary mind and tired hands 
 could not have help and rest. 
 
 But, next, he must find out how it was that with Henry 
 tilings were so very different. 
 
 The following day Uncle Hiram dined with Henry. 
 Everything was excellent and well cooked; and Ada sat 
 at the head of the table, with an easy, quiet grace, which 
 perfectly relieved Uncle Hiram’s mind from any care for 
 her. He knew very well Ada’s husband sought in every 
 way to relieve her of all unnecessary care and anxiety. 
 After dinner came tea and coffee—nothing more. When, 
 they retired from the table Henry said: 
 
 “ Uncle, would you like a cigar or pipe ? I’ll get you 
 one in a few moments, if you say so.” 
 
 “And will you join me?” asked his uncle. 
 
 “ I do not use either. I care not for the weed, and think 
 it better not to cultivate a taste,” answered Henry. 
 
 “ You are right, my boy—and how about wine or ale? H 
 
 “ Nothing of the kind, uncle.” 
 
 “ Total abstinence, is it, Henry?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir.” 
 
222 
 
 THE TWO BROTHERS, 
 
 “ I knew you were a temperate man, as is Charley. But 
 he takes his ale, I notice,” said Uncle Hiram. 
 
 “ Yes, I wish he did not; a man has no idea how such 
 little things, as he thinks them, draw upon his purse.” 
 
 “ I know, I know! ” said Uncle Hiram. And he no 
 longer wondered at the difference in Charley’s and Henry’s 
 style of living. And so he had a good talk with Charley, 
 and showed him how Henry, with the same salary, could 
 keep two servants and beautify his home, and he not be 
 able “ to keep his head above water,” to use his own 
 expression. 
 
 “ Yes, my boy, the cause is just this—the difference be¬ 
 tween temperance and total abstinence. You’ll try it now, 
 will you not, for your wife’s sake? ” said Uncle Hiram. 
 
 “ Indeed I will, sir, and with many thanks to you ? ‘«>r 
 opening my eyes,” answered Charley, who really loved iiis 
 wife, but was thoughtless, and never for a moment had 
 considered himself at all responsible for Nellie’s failing 
 health, strength and beauty. 
 
 When Uncle Hiram’s next visit was made, he saw, be¬ 
 fore he entered the house, that Charley had kept his word. 
 And when Nellie’s joyous greeting* was sounding in his 
 ear he knew then that all was “just as it should be” with 
 Nellie, as well as Ada. And the grateful little wife knew 
 to whom she was indebted for the happy change, and 
 blessed Uncle JI:ram for it. 
 
 v 
 
WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN. 
 
 “ I know not of the truth, d’ye see, 
 
 I tell the tale as ’twas told to me.” 
 
 M ARK BROWNSON was dying, slowly, but surely, s© 
 the physician told his wife, and advised that if he 
 had any business to settle, it should not be delayed. 
 
 “ He is sinking, and even now I see his mind is, at 
 times, a little clouded. However, I suppose there is noth¬ 
 ing of importance that he should consider,” said the 
 doctor. 
 
 t 
 
 “ He has made no will,” said Mrs. Brownson. 
 
 “ Is that necessary ? I did not know—” 
 
 “ I think it is very necessary, doctor, for his children’s 
 welfare. Not that I think it at all likely there can be any 
 contest about what Mr. Brownson has. Yet to provide 
 against any future troubles, it would be prudent, I think.” 
 The good doctor assented, but looked much surprised. 
 And well he might. No one imagined old Mark Brown¬ 
 son had anything to will. But he was a very eccentric 
 man; and the economical style of his establishment was 
 likely one of his notions. 
 
 “Are you suffering much pain now, Mark?” asked Mrs. 
 Brownson, a few moments after, when she was seated at 
 her b^band’s bedside. <223) 
 
224 
 
 WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 “ Yes, yes ; give me my composing draught—the opium 
 —anything to relieve me,” answered the suffering man. 
 
 His wife obeyed, and after his groaning and restlessness 
 had ceased, she said: 
 
 “ I want to talk to you, Mark. Can you listen now? ” 
 
 A nodded assent gave her permission to proceed. 
 
 “ Do you net think it would be as well for you to express 
 your wishes with regard to the disposition of your stocks 
 and other effects? You may outlive me, Mark, and this 
 tiling not be necessary, still I think it better to attend 
 to such business,” said Mrs. Brownson, closely watching 
 the effect her words might have on the sufferer. 
 
 She had feared possibly they might shock him severely, 
 but depending much on the favorable influence of the 
 opiate, she had ventured on the business she considered so 
 important. 
 
 A look of satisfaction replaced the anxiety of a moment 
 before. She had no longer cause for fear. Calmly Mark 
 Brownson heard her suggestion, and said, in a feeble 
 voice: 
 
 “ What have I to will ? ” 
 
 “ Why, dear, you forget. Your long sickness and the 
 opium—no wonder ! There is the stock in the ‘ Liverpool 
 Steamship Company,’ and that in the ‘Australian Mining 
 Company.’ Surely you have not forgotten your large 
 amount in our State bonds? And how much vou have 
 in ‘ Fire and Life Insurance stock ’ I cannot just remember 
 now. However, by reference to the papers I can tell.” 
 
 Again she watched her husband's face. It only ex¬ 
 pressed a rather puzzled brain, as though he was trying to 
 remember. 
 
 “ You have such papers? I cannot think,” he said. 
 
 “ Don’t try to, dear. It is not necessary. I will just 
 look over your papers, and make a statement; and when 
 
VP HAT HE LEFT. 
 
 225 
 
 I read them over to you in presence of the lawyer, you can 
 assent. You wish an equal division between myself and 
 our daughters, I know. Is it not so ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, yes. You are always right,” murmured her hus¬ 
 band. 
 
 “ There, dear, go to sleep now. Some time when you 
 are easy we will fix this,” said Mrs. Brownson. 
 
 And the next day, at an hour when she knew her hus¬ 
 band’s mind was best prepared, a lawyer was summoned, 
 and a statement of stocks and bonds to the amount of two 
 hundred thousand dollars placed before him, and Mark 
 Brownson expressed his wish to have an equal division 
 of his effects made between his wife and two children. 
 
 The will was made, and duly signed and witnessed by 
 two of the nearest neighbors and the only domestic, a 
 worthy woman who had been with Mrs. Brownson for 
 many years. 
 
 A few days more, and Mark Brownson had passed from 
 earth. 
 
 Many wondered at the very quiet and unostentatious 
 style of the last services for him; but the widow had said: 
 
 “ In death it shall be with him as he always preferred 
 in life.” 
 
 And then when all was over, and the summer moiiths 
 were coming, Mrs. Brownson sold out the modest little es¬ 
 tablishment, and, with her daughters and their faithful 
 servant, went to board by the seashore, at a very fashion¬ 
 able resort; but, of course, not to mingle in the gay 
 festivities of the season, only to recruit her health, which 
 was very much impared by long attention to her suffering 
 husband, and to have the girls escape the heat and dust 
 of the citv. 
 
 A few days after they were settled in their new abode, 
 Mrs. Brownson said to her attendant: 
 
226 
 
 WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 “ Margaret, you were very much surprised by hearing 
 Mr. Brownson’s will.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, ma’am, indeed I was.” 
 
 “Well, Margaret, I do not wish you to mention any* 
 thing about it down here. Mr. Brownson, you know, 
 never let it be known to the world. And so it must be 
 for the present. I do not wish my daughters to be mar¬ 
 ried for anything but their own good qualities. They are 
 good and beautiful enough to marry well, without having 
 any other inducements for suitors. Now, Margaret, you 
 know just how I feel, and what I mean ? ” said the anxious 
 mother. 
 
 “ Certainly I do! And I feel as much concerned about 
 my beautiful young ladies as you do, ma’am. Never fear 
 but I will look out for their interest,” answered the worthy 
 woman. 
 
 And to do as she said, to the best of her understanding, 
 Margaret set out for a walk on the beach, with some of 
 the other servants and their escorts, the waiters from the 
 hotel. And before the next noon it was well known what 
 a good chance there was for two young men to win as 
 beautiful wives as ever were seen, to say nothing of the 
 other greater attractions. 
 
 And very soon the sisters, Maud and May, were objects 
 of universal observation. Yet it was very difficult to get 
 an introduction, the young gentlemen all found; for the 
 widow kept the beautiful girls very much secluded. 
 
 Numberless were the delicate attentions paid them, h\ 
 the way of bouquets, books, and so on, sent by Margaret* 
 and several cards to Mrs. Brownson, with the request for 
 an introduction, accompanied by references—among which 
 came those of Vernon Wadsworth and Harry Bennett. 
 
 The first one Mrs. Brownson knew well by reputation. 
 He was a young physician of very fine promise, and. being 
 
WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 227 
 
 Of one of the best families in the State, she considered him 
 worthy of her attention. The other, she had heard since . 
 her arrival there, was the possessor of a very fair amount 
 of worldly goods, the life-long accumulation of an old 
 miser uncle. So, from the many aspirants, Mrs. Brownson 
 selected these two to present to her daughters. 
 
 Just at this time, Doctor Alton, Mrs. Brownson’s friend 
 and the physician who had attended her husband, arrived 
 at the sea-shore; and through him, without any more 
 trouble or waiting the mother’s pleasure, young Doctor 
 Wadsworth obtained an introduction, and presented his 
 friend, Bennett. 
 
 And although both of these young men did their best to 
 keep back all others by various manoeuvres, many more 
 became acquainted with the lovely sisters, who soon, 
 much to their own surprise, became decidedly the belles 
 of that resort. 
 
 Carefully Mrs. Brownson had guarded her secret from 
 her girls, fearing, perhaps, it would have a prejudicial 
 effect, changing their sweet, unassuming manner, which 
 was one of their greatest charms; or, perhaps, for other 
 motives best known to herself. 
 
 Although Doctor Wadsworth and young Bennett very 
 much feared the approach of other suitors, it was quite 
 needless, for the girls were best pleased with the first who 
 had sought them and drawn them forth from their seclu¬ 
 sion. 
 
 The older one, Maud, a brilliant brunette, received with 
 Undisguised pleasure the devoted attention of Harry Ben¬ 
 nett; while gentle little May, so fair and timid, always 
 greeted the handsome doctor by a rosy flush suffusing her 
 beautiful face; and then, from a shy, quick glance from 
 the eyes, that had drooped at his approach, he would see 
 the glad light that told how welcome his coming was. 
 
228 
 
 WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 “ We must win them now, doctor; you see how much 
 they are admired and sought here. What will it be when 
 they are out of their mourning robes and in the gayeties 
 of the city? This is our best chance. What say you? " 
 asked young Bennett, a fortnight after their introduction. 
 
 “ Say! That the very idea of even losing sight of that 
 gentle, beautiful May for a day, fills my heart with mis¬ 
 giving and great anxiety. I tell you, I began this affair 
 rather in fun—” 
 
 “ You mean after funds, perhaps ! ” interrupted Bennett. 
 
 A flush suffused Doctor Wadsworth’s face for an instant, 
 and he answered: 
 
 “Well, I’ll admit that is not at all objectionable; but 
 really, now that I know May Brownson, I would not be 
 willing to resign her to another man, even if she had not 
 a dollar in the world.” 
 
 There was an expression about Harry Bennett’s mouth 
 that looked as if his lips wanted to say: “ I don’t believe 
 you”—only they did not just dare to. Harry Bennett 
 was as much in love as he could be with any one other 
 than himself, still he was not going to leap without look¬ 
 ing. So, after learning a little more than he had already 
 heard from Margaret, he was called, very urgently, to the 
 city. After an absence of only two days he was back 
 again, and stated to Doctor Wadsworth his knowledge of 
 Mark Brownson’s possessions. That evening Mrs. Brown- 
 son received proposals for both of her daughters. 
 
 She must consider the matter, and consult with her 
 friends, the prudent mother thought and said to the 
 anxious suitors. 
 
 This made them each more determined to secure the 
 prize. 
 
 “ Dear May, plead with your mother for me! ” said the 
 ardent young doctor. 
 
WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 229 
 
 “Mamma will consent after a while,” answered the 
 gentle girl. 
 
 “After a while! Why not now? I am going away 
 next month for a long time. I cannot leave you, May. 
 Would you wish me to? ” 
 
 May turned pale at the thought, and raised her pleading 
 eyes to her mother. 
 
 It was enough. Doctor Wadsworth had used the surest 
 weapon. A separation was dreaded by both mother and 
 daughter, and each f<jr different reasons. And then it 
 w T as an easier thing for Harry Bennett to obtain the 
 mother’s consent, to claim his love at the same time. 
 
 Mrs. Brownson, after giving her consent, requested a 
 private interview with her prospective sons-in-law. The 
 girls were sent from the room, and then Mrs. Brownson. 
 said: 
 
 “ I have thought possibly, gentlemen, that a very foolish 
 rumor may have reached your ears respecting the wealth 
 possessed by my daughters, and that—excuse me, but I 
 must allude to it—this may in a measure have influenced 
 your selecting them from the many young girls here—” 
 
 “ Oh, madam ! ” both men exclaimed simultaneously. 
 
 “ If I tell you they have nothing but their pure hearts 
 and loving natures, will you not be disappointed ? ” 
 
 “ No, madam. How can you judge me so ? ” exclaimed 
 both. 
 
 “ I am glad it is so. I would not have you marry my 
 daughters under false impressions.” 
 
 “ When May is mine, I shall think I have secured the 
 most valuable fortune any man can have,” said the doctor, 
 with a really honest look in his eyes. 
 
 “ When Maud is mine, I shall know I have secured all 
 I would wish,” added Harry Bennett, with rather a sly 
 twinkle in his eyes. 
 
230 
 
 WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 And so it was agreed that they should be united there, 
 and after a very private wedding leave for an extensive 
 bridal tour. 
 
 “The old fox! Is she not a sly one? She thought to 
 throw us off, I do believe. But I am as bright as she,” 
 said Harry Bennett, after the interview. 
 
 Really, Bennett, that is not a very respectful way of 
 speaking of the mother of your promised wife,” replied 
 Doctor Wadsworth. 
 
 “Well, no; you are right. But just to think of her 
 talking so to us! ” answered Harry, with an air of injured 
 pride. 
 
 The ceremony was over. After an acquaintance of less 
 than six weeks, Doctor Wadsworth and Harry Bennett 
 had won their wives. 
 
 And while the brides had retired to change their dress 
 for the travelling-suit, the happy young husbands requested 
 to speak a moment with their mother-in-law. 
 
 “ Indeed you must speak; I will not,” said Doctor Wads¬ 
 worth, in a low tone, as he closed the door, and with Ben¬ 
 nett approached Mrs. Brownson. 
 
 After a moment’s hesitation, Harry Bennett said: 
 
 “ Now, Mrs. Brownson, that we have proved our sin¬ 
 cerity and real love for your daughters, there is no reason 
 for any longer concealment .’ 7 
 
 “About what, sir? ” asked his mother-in-law. 
 
 “ Come, my dear madam; this is entirely useless. Yon 
 have tried and proved us. Now to business.” 
 
 “ Really, Mr. Bennett, I am at a loss to understand you! 
 Will you please to be explicit? ” 
 
 “ Well, madam, then I must tell you that I am perfectly 
 well aware that my wife is entitled to the one-third of two 
 hundred thousand dollars left by her father. Now, my 
 dear madam, we are going on a very long and expensive 
 
231 
 
 WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 # 
 
 trip, and may need more than I have in ready money. 
 Now, that is just the whole truth,” said Harry, who had 
 gotten over his slight embarrassment, and then spoke in a 
 very business sort of manner. 
 
 Not so Doctor Wadsworth; he seemed very much mor¬ 
 tified, and looked as if he wished he was away from that 
 scene. 
 
 “ Mr. Bennett, I spoke to you about this report, and told 
 you how false it was, did I not?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, madam ; but you see—” 
 
 “ You still believe this, even when I again tell you that 
 neither I nor my daughters have a dollar in the world 
 beyond the small amount I have now from the sale of my 
 household effects? I assure you, sir, I speak the truth,” 
 said Mrs. Brownson, in a tone and manner that would 
 have enforced belief. 
 
 But Harry Bennett said, triumphantly: 
 
 “ Madam, I have seen Mr. Brownson’s will.” 
 
 “That will, my dear sir, is not worth the paper it is writ¬ 
 ten on. Mr. Brownson was out of his head, and imagined 
 he was possessed of that sum in bonds and stock. If 
 you can find any such possession, no one would wel¬ 
 come it more gladly than I. You can readily prove the 
 truth.”' 
 
 Harry Bennett gazed bewildered from his mother-in-law 
 to Doctor Wadsworth, and then said in a low voice, as if 
 to himself: 
 
 “ Caught and caged.” 
 
 u And I am glad of it,” exclaimed the doctor, who wa3 
 truly glad of anything to end that very embarrassing inter¬ 
 view. u Come, Bennett, we must arrange our trip to suit 
 the extent of our purse, and be happy with the prizes we 
 have won.” 
 
 44 Well, madam, I must say that the old gentleman’s will 
 
232 
 
 WHAT HE LEFT. 
 
 was worth something. For I’ll own up now, it nelped 
 very much to secure you one very nice young man for 
 your son. I’ll speak a word for him, although he has 
 been done up to a very Brown son ! I’m' ready now, Wads¬ 
 worth, and we won’t shorten our trip one mile; for I've got 
 a fortune, thanks to my old uncle. Yes, and another , I’ll 
 have to admit (there she is now), thanks to her father’s 
 will.” 
 
 Mrs. Brownson could not resist a smile. She had no 
 misgivings about her children’s future happiness. If they 
 had not already secured their husbands’ affection, she 
 knew they would soon; for who could help loving such 
 lovely girls I 
 
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