About five hundred men, the pick of the Mexican army, had collected round a knot of staff-officers, and were making a most gallant defence.  General Houston had attacked them with three hundred of our people, but had not been able to break their ranks.  His charge, however, had shaken them a little, and, before they had time to recover from it, I came up.  Giving a wild hurrah, my men fired their pistols, hurled them at their enemies’ heads, and then springing over the carcasses of the fallen, dashed like a thunderbolt into the broken ranks of the Mexicans.

A frightful butchery ensued.  Our men, who were for the most part, and at most times, peaceable and humane in disposition, seemed converted into perfect fiends.  Whole ranks of the enemy fell under their knives.  Some idea may be formed of the horrible slaughter from the fact, that the fight, from beginning to end, did not last above ten minutes, and in that time nearly eight hundred Mexicans were shot or cut down.  “No quarter!” was the cry of the infuriated assailants:  “Remember Alamo!  Remember Goliad!  Think of Fanning, Ward!” The Mexicans threw themselves on their knees, imploring mercy. “Misericordia!  Cuartel, por el amor de Dios!” shrieked they in heart-rending tones but their supplications were not listened to, and every man of them would inevitably have been butchered, had not General Houston and the officers dashed in between the victors and the vanquished, and with the greatest difficulty, and by threats of cutting down our own men if they did not desist, put an end to this scene of bloodshed, and saved the Texian character from the stain of unmanly cruelty.

When all was over, I hurried back to the place where I had left the Alcalde with Bob—­the latter lay, bleeding from six wounds, only a few paces from the spot where he had helped me up the breastwork.  The bodies of two dead Mexicans served him for a pillow.  The Alcalde was kneeling by his side, gazing sadly and earnestly into the face of the dying man.

For Bob was dying; but it was no longer the death of the despairing murderer.  The expression of his features was calm and composed, and his eyes were raised to heaven with a look of hope and supplication.

I stooped down and asked him how he felt himself, but he made no answer, and evidently did not recollect me.  After a minute or two,

“How goes it with the fight?” he asked in a broken voice.

“We have conquered, Bob.  The enemy killed or taken.  Not a man escaped.”

He paused a little, and then spoke again.

“Have I done my duty?  May I hope to be forgiven?”

The Alcalde answered him in an agitated voice.

“He who forgave the sinner on the cross, will doubtless be merciful to you, Bob.  His holy book says:  There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just men.  Be of good hope, Bob! the Almighty will surely be merciful to you!”