University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

“All things are dark to sorrow,” and the very repose
and beauty of nature seems 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 expostulations. 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 battle-field.

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 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 supporting 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 wamly, 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
spreading oak to rest, and, if possible, to sleep. An hour
passed on: still he lay looking up to the brilliant sky above.
Perfect quiet reigned around, and he felt soothed inexpressibly.
Overcome with fatigue, sleep stole on, and momentary

oblivion of the past was granted. He was startled from
his slumber by the neighing of his horse; and rising lightly,
drew forth his pistols, cocked one, and turned in the direction
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.

“O 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
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, content
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 can not
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
you ever hear of such an `hombre?' My ranche is just below
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, Señor 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
I smelled.”

“You are at liberty to rest as long as you please: consult
your own inclinations.” And he turned away to his
own horse, yet marked that the new comer 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 comfortably,
and drawing forth a sort of wallet, proceeded to satisfy
the cravings of hunger. He ate but little, and returning
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 motionless
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 up-turned 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 custom
of his countrymen, ever hung in the girdle passed about
the waist. It glittered in the moonlight; and with dexterous
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, determined,
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
consciousness; he stooped and shook him.

“Antoine, Antoine, get up my friend: you don't intend
to spend the night here, do you?”

Amedo sat upright, and rubbed his eyes with well-feigned
sleepiness: “Well, Señor 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 sleepers
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, Señor; yet mine eyes are heavy, for two
moons have seen me riding on. But you are up! wherefore?”

“I proceed on my journey, and wakened you to ask advice
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 wrapt 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 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
expression 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 Mañuel's side, in the church-yard, and I am the
last of my house. The name of De Garcia, once so proud
and honored, will become a by-word for desolation and
misery! 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 irreverently
of the holy man, consecrated priest of Rome ashe
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 while cursed him in my heart. I watched him,
and saved your people from destruction. Would you know

how? I 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 confessor. I warned you of your danger, and happily
you heeded the signs of the time; else you, too, would now
moulder 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 midnight 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 `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! 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 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!”

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! 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 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 church-yard
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!
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
accompany 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
enabled to render you a service, and take you to a place of
safety. But your hand is hot—burning: it is feverish excitement
from which you suffer. When we have reached

Goliad, 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.”

She took the proffered weapon, and having secured it in
the girdle, turned to mount her horse. Frank assisted in
arranging the accoutrements, and, springing upon his own
recruited steed, they turned their faces southward.