The 6th of March rose dark and lowering, and all nature wore an aspect meet for the horrors which that day chronicled in the page of history.  Toward noon the dense leaden cloud floated off, as though the uncertainty which veiled the future had suddenly been lifted—­the crisis had come.  Santa Anna and his bloodthirsty horde, rendered more savage by the recollection of the 11th December, poured out the vial of their wrath on the doomed town.  Oh!  San Antonio, thou art too beautiful for strife and discord to mar thy quiet loveliness.  Yet the fiery breath of desolating war swept rudely o’er thee, and, alas! thou wast sorely scathed.

A second time the ill-fated fortress was fiercely charged.  Long it withstood the terrible shock, and the overwhelming thousands that so madly pressed its gray, moldering walls.  The sun went down as it were in a sea of blood, its lurid light, gleaming ominously on the pale, damp brows of the doomed garrison.  Black clouds rolled up and veiled the heavens in gloom.  Night closed prematurely in with fitful gusts, mingling the moans and strife of nature with the roar of artillery.  Still the fury of the onset abated not:  the Alamo shook to its firm basis.  Despairingly the noble band raised their eyes to the blackened sky.  “God help us!” A howling blast swept by, lost in the deep muttering of the cannonade.  Then a deep voice rung clearly out, high above the surrounding din:  “Comrades, we are lost! let us die like brave men!”

The shriek of departing hope was echoed back by the sullen groan of despair.  Travis fell, fighting at the entrance.  As the hero sank upon the glory floor, there was a pause; friend and foe gazed upon the noble form!  His spirit sprung up to meet his God.

“On, comrades!  Travis has fallen! dearly will we die!”

One hundred and fifty brave hearts poured out their life-blood by his motionless form, struck down like sheep in the slaughter-pen.  But seven remained:  in despair they gazed on the ruin around, reeling from exhaustion and slipping in gore.  There was borne on the midnight air a faint, feeble cry:  “Quarter! quarter!” Alas! brave hearts, the appeal was lost, for an incarnate demon led the thirsty band.  With a fiendish yell it was answered back, “No quarter!” and ye seven were stretched beside your fearless, noble Travis.

Not a living Texan remained.  The stiffening forms, grim in death, returned not even a groan to the wild shout of triumph that rung so mockingly though the deserted chambers of the slaughter-house.  Victory declared for the wily tyrant—­the black-hearted Santa Anna.  Complete was the desolation which reigned around:  there was none to oppose—­no not one; and the Alamo was his again!  Oh, Death! thou art insatiate!  Hundreds had yielded to thy call, and followed the beckoning of thy relentless hand:  and still another must swell thy specter host, and join the shadowy band of the Spirit World!

For three days Don Garcia lay motionless on his couch of pain; even utterance was denied him, for paralysis had stretched forth her numb, stiffening finger, and touched him, even while he stood in the busy haunts of men.  All day the din of battle had sounded in his ear; Inez from time to time stole from his side, and looked out toward the fortress, dimly seen through the sulphurous cloud of smoke and the blaze of artillery.