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 G.o.d 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, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 n.o.ble, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 a.s.sault 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 m.u.f.fled 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 a.s.suredly, 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. Manuel 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 a.s.sistance; 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."
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 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?"
Manuel laid his hand on the bleeding side, and feebly inclined his head.
"Inez, I can only use one hand, will you a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sing 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 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 Manuel, 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 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 morning; I will see you again to-morrow." And Frank sought his sister, knowing full well her anxiety, and wishing speedily 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 gra.s.s began to bud on the grave of Manuel; 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 ma.s.s--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 a.s.sembled 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed, 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?"