Remember the Alamo. Barr Amelia E.
the cup of endurance. It is boiling over. Now, doctor, what are you going to do? Are you with us, or against us?”
“I have told you that I have been with my countrymen always—heart and soul with them.”
The doctor spoke with some irritation, and Houston laid his closed hand hard upon the table to emphasize his reply:
“Heart and soul! Very good! But we want your body now. You must tuck your bowie-knife and your revolvers in your belt, and take your rifle in your hand, and be ready to help us drive the Mexican force out of this very city.”
“When it comes to that I shall be no laggard.”
But he was deathly pale, for he was suffering as men suffer who feel the sweet bonds of wife and children and home, and dread the rending of them apart. In a moment, however, the soul behind his white face made it visibly luminous. “Houston,” he said, “whenever the cause of freedom needs me, I am ready. I shall want no second call. But is it not possible, that even yet—”
“It is impossible to avert what is already here. Within a few days, perhaps to-morrow, you will hear the publication of an edict from Santa Anna, ordering every American to give up his arms.”
“What! Give up our arms! No, no, by Heaven! I will die fighting for mine, rather.”
“Exactly. That is how every white man in Texas feels about it. And if such a wonder as a coward existed among them, he understands that he may as well die fighting Mexicans, as die of hunger or be scalped by Indians. A large proportion of the colonists depend on their rifles for their daily food. All of them know that they must defend their own homes from the Comanche, or see them perish. Now, do you imagine that Americans will obey any such order? By all the great men of seventeen seventy-five, if they did, I would go over to the Mexicans and help them to wipe the degenerate cowards out of existence!”
He rose as he spoke; he looked like a flame, and his words cut like a sword. Worth caught fire at his vehemence and passion. He clasped his hands in sympathy as he walked with him to the door. They stood silently together for a moment on the threshold, gazing into the night. Over the glorious land the full moon hung, enamoured. Into the sweet, warm air mockingbirds were pouring low, broken songs of ineffable melody. The white city in the mystical light looked like an enchanted city. It was so still that the very houses looked asleep.
“It is a beautiful land,” said the doctor.
“It is worthy of freedom,” answered Houston. Then he went with long, swinging steps down the garden, and into the shadows beyond, and Worth turned in and closed the door.
He had been watching for this very hour for twenty years; and yet he found himself wholly unprepared for it. Like one led by confused and uncertain thoughts, he went about the room mechanically locking up his papers, and the surgical instruments he valued so highly. As he did so he perceived the book he had been reading when Houston entered. It was lying open where he had laid it down. A singular smile flitted over his face. He lifted it and carried it closer to the light. It was his college Cicero.
“I was nineteen years old when I marked that passage,” he said; “and I do not think I have ever read it since, until to-night. I was reading it when Houston came into the room. Is it a message, I wonder?—
“‘But when thou considerest everything carefully and thoughtfully; of all societies none is of more importance, none more dear, than that which unites us with the commonwealth. Our parents, children, relations and neighbors are dear, but our fatherland embraces the whole round of these endearments. In its defence, who would not dare to die, if only he could assist it?”
CHAPTER IV. THE SHINING BANDS OF LOVE
“O blest be he! O blest be he!
Let him all blessings prove,
Who made the chains, the shining chains,
The holy chains of love!”
“If you love a lady bright,
Seek, and you shall find a way
All that love would say, to say
If you watch the occasion right.”
In the morning Isabel took breakfast with her sister. This was always a pleasant event to Antonia. She petted Isabel, she waited upon her, sweetened her chocolate, spread her cakes with honey, and listened to all her complaints of Tia Rachela. Isabel came gliding in when Antonia was about half way through the meal. Her scarlet petticoat was gorgeous, her bodice white as snow, her hair glossy as a bird’s wing, but her lips drooped and trembled, and there was the shadow of tears in her eyes. Antonia kissed their white fringed lids, held the little form close in her arms, and fluttered about in that motherly way which Isabel had learned to demand and enjoy.
“What has grieved you this morning, little dove?”
“It is Tia Rachela, as usual. The cross old woman! She is going to tell mi madre something. Antonia, you must make her keep her tongue between her teeth. I promised her to confess to Fray Ignatius, and she said I must also tell mi madre. I vowed to say twenty Hail Marias and ten Glorias, and she said ‘I ought to go back to the convent.’”
“But what dreadful thing have you been doing, Iza?”
Iza blushed and looked into her chocolate cup, as she answered slowly: “I gave—a—flower—away. Only a suchil flower, Antonia, that—I—wore—at—my—breast—last—night.”
“Whom did you give it to, Iza?”
Iza hesitated, moved her chair close to Antonia, and then hid her face on her sister’s breast.
“But this is serious, darling. Surely you did not give it to Senor Houston?”
“Could you think I was so silly? When madre was talking to him last night, and when I was singing my pretty serenade, he heard nothing at all. He was thinking his own thoughts.”
“Not to Senor Houston? Who then? Tell me, Iza.”
“To—Don Luis.”
“Don Luis! But he is not here. He went to the Colorado.”
“How stupid are you, Antonia! In New York they did not teach you to put this and that together. As soon as I saw Senor Houston, I said to myself: ‘Don Luis was going to him; very likely they have met each other on the road; very likely Don Luis is back in San Antonio. He would not want to go away without bidding me good-by,’ and, of course, I was right.”
“But when did you see him last night? You never left the room.”
“So many things are possible. My heart said to me when the talk was going on, ‘Don Luis is waiting under the oleanders,’ and I walked on to the balcony and there he was, and he looked so sad, and I dropped my suchil flower to him; and Rachela saw me, for I think she has a million eyes,—and that is the whole matter.”
“But why did not Don Luis come in?”
“Mi madre forbade me to speak to him. That is the fault of the Valdez’s.”
“Then you disobeyed mi madre, and you know what Fray Ignatius and the Sisters have taught you about the fourth command.”
“Oh, indeed, I did not think of the fourth command! A sin without intention has not penance; and consider, Antonia, I am now sixteen, and they would shut me up like a chicken in its shell. Antonia, sweet Antonia, speak to Rachela, and make your little Iza happy. Fear is so bad for me. See, I do not even care for my cakes and honey this morning.
“I will give Rachela the blue silk kerchief I brought from New York. She will forget a great deal for that, and then, Iza, darling, you must tell Fray Ignatius of your sin, because it is not good to have an unconfessed sin on the soul.”
“Antonia, do not say such cruel things.