Remember the Alamo [78]
and the lives of many others
may now hang upon a few moments. I can remain here no longer.
Where shall I take you to?"
"I will not leave my home."
"Santa Anna is almost here. As soon as he arrives, Fray
Ignatius and twelve of the Bernardine monks are coming here.
I was told that yesterday."
"Then I will go to the convent. I and my daughters."
"No, mother; if you go to the convent, Antonia and Isabel must
go with me."
She prayed, and exclaimed, and appealed to saints and angels,
and to the holy Virgin, until Isabel was hysterically weeping,
Antonia at a mental tension almost unendurable, and Thomas on
the verge of one of those terrifying passions that mark
the extremity of habitually gentle, patient men.
"My God, mother!" he exclaimed with a stamp of his spurred
boot on the stone floor; "if you will go to the devil--to the
priests, I mean--you must go alone. Kiss your mother
farewell, girls. I have not another moment to wait."
Then, in a passion of angry sobs and reproaches, she decided
to go with her daughters, and no saint ever suffered with a
more firm conviction of their martyrdom to duty than did this
poor foolish, affectionate slave to her emotions and her
superstitions. But when Thomas had gone, and nothing was to
be gained by a display of her sufferings, she permitted
herself to be interested in their hiding-place, and after
Antonia had given her a cup of chocolate, and Isabel had
petted and soothed her, she began gradually to allow them to
explain their situation, and even to feel some interest in its
discussion.
They sat in the charmful, dusky glimmer of starlight, for
candles and fire were forbidden luxuries. Fortunately, the
weather was warm and sunny, and for making chocolate and such
simple cookery, Lopez had provided a spirit lamp. The
Senora was as pleased as a child with this arrangement. She
had never seen anything like it before. She even imagined the
food cooked upon it had some rare and unusual flavor. She was
quite proud when she had learned its mysteries, and quite sure
that chocolate she made upon it was chocolate of a most
superior kind.
The house had been empty for two years, and the great point
was to preserve its air of desolation. No outside arrangement
was touched; the torn remnants of some balcony hangings were
left fluttering in the wind; the closed windows and the closed
doors, the absence of smoke from the chimneys and of lights
from the windows, preserved the air of emptiness and
loneliness that the passers-by had been accustomed to see.
And, as it was on the highway into the city, there were great
numbers of passers: mule-trains going to Mexico and Sonora;
cavaliers and pedestrians; splendidly-dressed nobles and
officials, dusty peons bringing in wood; ranchmen, peddlers,
and the whole long list of a great city's purveyors and
servants.
But though some of the blinds were half-closed, much could be
seen; and Isabel also often took cushions upon the flat roof,
and lying down, watched, from between the pilasters of the
balustrade surrounding it, the moving panorama.
On the morning of the third day of what the Senora, called
their imprisonment, they went to the roof to sit in the clear
sunshine and the fresh wind. They were weary and depressed
with the loneliness and uncertainty of their position, and
were almost longing for something to happen that would push
forward the lagging wheels of destiny.
A long fanfare of trumpets, a roll of drums, a stirring march
of warlike melody, startled them out of the lethargic tedium
of exhausted hopes and fears. "It is Santa Anna!" said
Antonia; and though they durst not stand up, they drew closer
to the balustrade and watched for the approaching army. Is
there any woman who can resist that nameless emotion which
both fires and rends the heart in the presence of great
military movements? Antonia was still and speechless, and
white as death. Isabel watched with gleaming eyes and
set lips. The Senora's excitement was unmistakably that of
exultant
may now hang upon a few moments. I can remain here no longer.
Where shall I take you to?"
"I will not leave my home."
"Santa Anna is almost here. As soon as he arrives, Fray
Ignatius and twelve of the Bernardine monks are coming here.
I was told that yesterday."
"Then I will go to the convent. I and my daughters."
"No, mother; if you go to the convent, Antonia and Isabel must
go with me."
She prayed, and exclaimed, and appealed to saints and angels,
and to the holy Virgin, until Isabel was hysterically weeping,
Antonia at a mental tension almost unendurable, and Thomas on
the verge of one of those terrifying passions that mark
the extremity of habitually gentle, patient men.
"My God, mother!" he exclaimed with a stamp of his spurred
boot on the stone floor; "if you will go to the devil--to the
priests, I mean--you must go alone. Kiss your mother
farewell, girls. I have not another moment to wait."
Then, in a passion of angry sobs and reproaches, she decided
to go with her daughters, and no saint ever suffered with a
more firm conviction of their martyrdom to duty than did this
poor foolish, affectionate slave to her emotions and her
superstitions. But when Thomas had gone, and nothing was to
be gained by a display of her sufferings, she permitted
herself to be interested in their hiding-place, and after
Antonia had given her a cup of chocolate, and Isabel had
petted and soothed her, she began gradually to allow them to
explain their situation, and even to feel some interest in its
discussion.
They sat in the charmful, dusky glimmer of starlight, for
candles and fire were forbidden luxuries. Fortunately, the
weather was warm and sunny, and for making chocolate and such
simple cookery, Lopez had provided a spirit lamp. The
Senora was as pleased as a child with this arrangement. She
had never seen anything like it before. She even imagined the
food cooked upon it had some rare and unusual flavor. She was
quite proud when she had learned its mysteries, and quite sure
that chocolate she made upon it was chocolate of a most
superior kind.
The house had been empty for two years, and the great point
was to preserve its air of desolation. No outside arrangement
was touched; the torn remnants of some balcony hangings were
left fluttering in the wind; the closed windows and the closed
doors, the absence of smoke from the chimneys and of lights
from the windows, preserved the air of emptiness and
loneliness that the passers-by had been accustomed to see.
And, as it was on the highway into the city, there were great
numbers of passers: mule-trains going to Mexico and Sonora;
cavaliers and pedestrians; splendidly-dressed nobles and
officials, dusty peons bringing in wood; ranchmen, peddlers,
and the whole long list of a great city's purveyors and
servants.
But though some of the blinds were half-closed, much could be
seen; and Isabel also often took cushions upon the flat roof,
and lying down, watched, from between the pilasters of the
balustrade surrounding it, the moving panorama.
On the morning of the third day of what the Senora, called
their imprisonment, they went to the roof to sit in the clear
sunshine and the fresh wind. They were weary and depressed
with the loneliness and uncertainty of their position, and
were almost longing for something to happen that would push
forward the lagging wheels of destiny.
A long fanfare of trumpets, a roll of drums, a stirring march
of warlike melody, startled them out of the lethargic tedium
of exhausted hopes and fears. "It is Santa Anna!" said
Antonia; and though they durst not stand up, they drew closer
to the balustrade and watched for the approaching army. Is
there any woman who can resist that nameless emotion which
both fires and rends the heart in the presence of great
military movements? Antonia was still and speechless, and
white as death. Isabel watched with gleaming eyes and
set lips. The Senora's excitement was unmistakably that of
exultant