Remember the Alamo [91]
out."
The doctor was trembling with grief and anger, and he felt
Antonia's hand on his shoulder.
"My friend," he whispered, "did you know JOHN WORTH?"
"Who did not know him in Fannin's camp? Any of us would have
been glad to save poor Jack; and he had a friend who refused
to live without him."
"Dare Grant?"
"That was the man, young lady. Grant was a doctor, and the
Mexicans wanted doctors. They offered him his life for his
services, but he would not have it unless his friend's life
also was spared. They were shot holding each other's hands,
and fell together. I was watching their faces at the moment.
There wasn't a bit of fear in them."
The Senora rose, and came as swiftly as a spirit to them. She
looked like a woman walking in her sleep. She touched the
stranger. "I heard you. You saw Dare Grant die. But my boy!
My boy! Where is my Juan?"
"Maria, darling."
"Don't speak, Roberto. Where is my Juan? Juan Worth?"
"Madam. I am sorry enough, God knows. Juan Worth--was shot."
Then the wretched mother threw up her hands, and with an
awful cry fell to the ground. It was hours ere she recovered
consciousness, and consciousness only restored her to misery.
The distress of the father, the brother and sisters of the
dead youth was submerged in the speechless despair of the
mother. She could not swallow food; she turned away from the
the{sic} sympathy of all who loved her. Even Isabel's
caresses were received with an apathy which was terrifying.
With the severed curl of her boy's hair in her fingers, she
sat in tearless, voiceless anguish.
Poor Antonia, weighed down with the double loss that had come
to her, felt, for the first time, as if their condition was
utterly hopeless. The mental picture of her brother and her
lover meeting their tragic death hand in hand, their youth and
beauty, their courage and fidelity, was constantly before her.
With all the purity and strength of her true heart, she loved
Dare; but she did not for a moment wish that he had taken a
different course. "It is just what I should have expected
from him," she said to Isabel. "If he had let poor Jack die
alone, I could never have loved him in the same way
again. But oh, Isabel, how miserable I am?"
"Sweet Antonia, I can only weep with you. Think of this; it
was on last Sunday morning. Do you remember how sad you
were?"
"I was in what seemed to be an unreasonable distress. I went
away to weep. My very thoughts were tired with their
sorrowful journeys up and down my mind, trying to find out
hope and only meeting despair. Oh, my brave Jack! Oh, my
dear Dare, what a cruel fate was your's!"
"And mi madre, Antonia? I fear, indeed, that she will lose
her senses. She will not speak to Thomas, nor even to me.
She has not said a prayer since Jack's death. She cannot
sleep. I am afraid of her, Antonia."
"To-night we are to move further east; perhaps the journey may
waken her out of this trance of grief. I can see that our
father is wretched about her; and Thomas wanders in and out of
the room as if his heart was broken."
"Thomas loved Jack. Luis told me that he sat with him and
Lopez, and that he sobbed like a woman. But, also, he means
a great revenge. None of the men slept last night. They
stood by the camp-fires talking. Sometimes I went to the door
and looked out. How awful they were in the blaze and
darkness! I think, indeed, they could have conquered Santa
Anna very easily."
Isabel had not misjudged the spirit of the camp. The news of
the massacre at Goliad was answered by a call for vengeance
that nothing but vengeance could satisfy. On the following
day Houston addressed his little army. He reminded them that
they were the children of the heroes who fought for liberty at
Yorktown, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill. He made a soul-
stirring review of the events that had passed; he explained to
them their situation, and the designs of the enemy, and how he
proposed to meet them.
His voice, loud as a trumpet with
The doctor was trembling with grief and anger, and he felt
Antonia's hand on his shoulder.
"My friend," he whispered, "did you know JOHN WORTH?"
"Who did not know him in Fannin's camp? Any of us would have
been glad to save poor Jack; and he had a friend who refused
to live without him."
"Dare Grant?"
"That was the man, young lady. Grant was a doctor, and the
Mexicans wanted doctors. They offered him his life for his
services, but he would not have it unless his friend's life
also was spared. They were shot holding each other's hands,
and fell together. I was watching their faces at the moment.
There wasn't a bit of fear in them."
The Senora rose, and came as swiftly as a spirit to them. She
looked like a woman walking in her sleep. She touched the
stranger. "I heard you. You saw Dare Grant die. But my boy!
My boy! Where is my Juan?"
"Maria, darling."
"Don't speak, Roberto. Where is my Juan? Juan Worth?"
"Madam. I am sorry enough, God knows. Juan Worth--was shot."
Then the wretched mother threw up her hands, and with an
awful cry fell to the ground. It was hours ere she recovered
consciousness, and consciousness only restored her to misery.
The distress of the father, the brother and sisters of the
dead youth was submerged in the speechless despair of the
mother. She could not swallow food; she turned away from the
the{sic} sympathy of all who loved her. Even Isabel's
caresses were received with an apathy which was terrifying.
With the severed curl of her boy's hair in her fingers, she
sat in tearless, voiceless anguish.
Poor Antonia, weighed down with the double loss that had come
to her, felt, for the first time, as if their condition was
utterly hopeless. The mental picture of her brother and her
lover meeting their tragic death hand in hand, their youth and
beauty, their courage and fidelity, was constantly before her.
With all the purity and strength of her true heart, she loved
Dare; but she did not for a moment wish that he had taken a
different course. "It is just what I should have expected
from him," she said to Isabel. "If he had let poor Jack die
alone, I could never have loved him in the same way
again. But oh, Isabel, how miserable I am?"
"Sweet Antonia, I can only weep with you. Think of this; it
was on last Sunday morning. Do you remember how sad you
were?"
"I was in what seemed to be an unreasonable distress. I went
away to weep. My very thoughts were tired with their
sorrowful journeys up and down my mind, trying to find out
hope and only meeting despair. Oh, my brave Jack! Oh, my
dear Dare, what a cruel fate was your's!"
"And mi madre, Antonia? I fear, indeed, that she will lose
her senses. She will not speak to Thomas, nor even to me.
She has not said a prayer since Jack's death. She cannot
sleep. I am afraid of her, Antonia."
"To-night we are to move further east; perhaps the journey may
waken her out of this trance of grief. I can see that our
father is wretched about her; and Thomas wanders in and out of
the room as if his heart was broken."
"Thomas loved Jack. Luis told me that he sat with him and
Lopez, and that he sobbed like a woman. But, also, he means
a great revenge. None of the men slept last night. They
stood by the camp-fires talking. Sometimes I went to the door
and looked out. How awful they were in the blaze and
darkness! I think, indeed, they could have conquered Santa
Anna very easily."
Isabel had not misjudged the spirit of the camp. The news of
the massacre at Goliad was answered by a call for vengeance
that nothing but vengeance could satisfy. On the following
day Houston addressed his little army. He reminded them that
they were the children of the heroes who fought for liberty at
Yorktown, and Saratoga, and Bunker Hill. He made a soul-
stirring review of the events that had passed; he explained to
them their situation, and the designs of the enemy, and how he
proposed to meet them.
His voice, loud as a trumpet with