"How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes bless'd?
* * * * *
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there."
"How shall we rank thee upon glory's page?
Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage."
"Grief fills the room up of my absent child;
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Remembers me of all his gracious parts."
Near midnight, on March the ninth, the weary fugitives arrived at Gonzales. They had been detained by the deep mud in the bottom lands, and by the extreme exhaustion of the ladies, demanding some hours' rest each day. The village was dark and quiet. Here and there the glimmer of a candle, now and then the call of a sentry, or the wail of a child broke the mysterious silence.
Ortiz appeared to know the ground perfectly. He drove without hesitation to a log house in which a faint thread of light was observable, and as he approached it he gave a long, peculiar whistle. The door was instantly thrown open, and, as the wagon stopped, two men stepped eagerly to it. In another instant the Senora was weeping in her husband's arms, and Isabel laughing and crying and murmuring her sweet surprises into the ear of the delighted Luis. When their wraps had been removed from the wagon, Ortiz drove away, leaving Navarro and Antonia standing by the little pile of ladies' luggage.
"I will take charge of all, Senorita. Alas! How weary you are!"
"It is nothing, Senor. Let me thank you for your great kindness."
"Senorita, to be of service to you is my good fortune. If it were necessary, my life for your life, and I would die happy."
She had given him her hand with her little speech of thanks, and he raised it to his lips. It was an act of homage that he might have offered to a saint, but in it Lopez unconsciously revealed to Antonia the secret love in his heart. For he stood in the glow of light from the open door, and his handsome face showed, as in a glass darkly, the tenderness and hopelessness of his great affection. She was touched by the discovery, and though she had a nature faithful as sunrising she could not help a feeling of kindly interest in a lover so reticent, so watchful, so forgetful of himself.
The log cabin in which they found shelter was at least a resting-place. A fire of cedar logs burned upon the hearth, and there was a bed in the room, and a few rude chairs covered with raw hide. But the Senora had a happy smile on her weary face. She ignored the poverty of her surroundings. She had her Roberto, and, for this hour at least, had forgiven fate.
Presently the coffee-pot was boiling, and Doctor Worth and Luis brought out their small store of corn-bread and their tin camp-cups, and the weary women ate and drank, and comforted themselves in the love and protection at their side.
Doctor Worth sat by his wife, and gave Antonia his hand.
Isabel leaned her pretty head against Luis, and listened with happy smiles to his low words:
"Charming little one, your lips are two crimson curtains.
Between curtain and curtain my kiss is waiting. Give it to me."
"Eyes of my soul, to-night the world begins again for me."
"At this blessed hour of God, I am the happiest man he has made."
"As for me, here in this dear, white hand I put my heart."
Is there any woman who cannot imagine Isabel's shy glances, and the low, sweet words in which she answered such delightful protestations? And soon, to add a keener zest to his happiness, Luis began to be a little jealous.
"With us is Dias de Bonilla. Do you remember, my beloved one. that you danced with him once?"
"How can you say a thing so offensive?"
"Yes, dear, at the Senora Valdez's."
"It may be. I have forgotten."
"Too well he remembers. He has dared to sing a serenade to your memory--well, truly, he did not finish it, and but for the Senor Doctor, I should have taught him that Isabel is not a name for his lips to utter. Here, he may presume to come into your presence. Will you receive him with extreme haughtiness? It would be a great satisfaction to me."
"The poor fellow! Why should I make him miserable? You should not be jealous, Luis."
"If you smile on him--the least little smile--he will think you are in love with him. He is such a fool, I assure you.
I am very distressed about this matter, my angel."
"I will tell you Luis--when the myrtle-tree grows figs, and the fig-tree is pink with myrtle flowers, then I may fall in love with Dias de Bonilla--if I can take the trouble."
No one heeded this pretty, extravagant talk. It was a thing apart from the more serious interests discussed by Doctor Worth and his wife and eldest daughter. And when Ortiz and Navarro joined the circle, the story of the fall of the Alamo was told again, and Luis forgot his own happiness, and wept tears of anger and pity for the dead heroes.
"This brutal massacre was on the morning of the sixth, you say, Navarro?"
"Last Sabbath morning, Senor. Mass was being offered in the churches, and Te Deums sung while it went on."
"A mass to the devil it was," said Ortiz.
"Now, I will tell you something. On the morning of the second, Thomas was in Washington. A convention sitting there declared, on that day, the independence of Texas, and fifty-five out of fifty-six votes elected General Houston Commander-in-Chief."
"Houston! That is the name of victory! Gracias a Dios!" cried Navarro.
"It is probable that the news of this movement influenced Santa Anna to such barbarity."
"It is his nature to be brutal."
"True, Ortiz; yet I can imagine how this proclamation would incense him. On the morning of the sixth, the convention received the last express sent by poor Travis from the Alamo.
It was of the most thrilling character, breathing the very spirit of patriotism and courage--and despair. In less than an hour, Houston, with a few companions, was on his way to the Alamo. At the same time he sent an express to Fannin, urging him to meet him on the Cibolo. Houston will be here to-morrow."
