University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

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 Mañuel; no tear moistened
the sod beneath which he rested. Inez often stood
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
church-yard.

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 arranging
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 almost 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
accustomed place, with covered head, seemingly rapt in
devotion, 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. 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 before
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
toward 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 almost 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
bending 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.”

He stood aside. “Bueño noche, Señorita.”

“Bueño noche;” 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 rendezvous, 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, another
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. Beyond where the avenue ceased, stood a low,
irregular building of stone, thatched with tule.

Inez stood at the threshold and listened intently. The
place bore a desolate air, and neither sound nor light
betokened 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 approaching
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
herself, 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 through the empty building. Again was the
signal for admission given, but no response greeted the
anxious tympanums.

“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
I am too late already.”

“Nay, nay; restrain your impatience,” said a voice
behind him.

“By the saints, you are come in good time, Padre. I
had well-nigh made a soldier's entrance.”

“No need of violence, Señor. 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 head.
Think you to gull me with your holy talk? I know you
all: 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 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 Father Mazzolin, fully
satisfied that the organ of reverence was altogether omitted
in his cranium, thought it best to comply.

“Ha! 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: the stranger stopped,
and calling 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.”