"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
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 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 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 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."