University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

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 goodwill
reign throughout the world? When shall hatred,
revenge, 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 11th 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 besiegers
numbered only eight hundred, while the fortress 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 11th a desperate
assault was made, a violent struggle ensued, and ere long
victory declared for the “Lone Star.” With unutterable
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 prisoners 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 tidings
of his safety to his anxious sister, and now devoted
himself to the suffering soldiery. Midnight found him beside
the couch of pain, and even as he bent to administer
a sedative, a hand was lightly laid on his shoulder. Looking
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 any thing for you, Señora?”

“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.
Mañuel 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 Mañuel 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.”

They entered the apartment of the sufferer, and Inez
started at the change which had taken place during her
temporary absence. Mañuel 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 complied,
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?”

Mañuel laid his hand on the bleeding side, and feebly
inclined 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!”

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
without 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. Mañuel 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 her
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 sincerely
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 Mañuel, where death and parting are
unknown?”

She had averted her head, and a look of unutterable bitterness
rested on the pale, stern face.

“I thank you for coming, though you could not give
Mañuel 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, Señor, 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 morning;
I will see you again to-morrow.” And Frank sought
his sister, knowing full well her anxiety, and wishing
speedily to allay it.