In the silent watches of the night, the shout of “Victory!” was borne on by the blast.  “My father, the Alamo is taken—­Santa Anna has conquered!” He struggled fearfully, a gurgling sound alone passed his lips, and he fell back lifeless on his pillow.

Calmly the girl bent down and closed the eyes, covered decently the convulsed features, and then, shrouding her face with the mantilla, stept forth for assistance.  The next day saw the Don borne to his last resting-place.  In accordance with the custom of the nation, no female followed the bier.  It was borne by two men, and followed by some dozen children, and perhaps as many aged Mexicans.  While just in advance strode the Padre, repeating the Latin service for the dead, and attended by four boys—­two bearing censers, one a cross, and the other holy water.  With indecent haste they pressed forward, passing through the church, and resting the bier for a moment on the altar, while an Ave Maria was repeated.  At a sign from the Padre, the procession moved on to the churchyard, and, without further ceremony, the body deposited in consecrated ground.  Holy water was sprinkled profusedly around, and then all departed, leaving him to sleep undisturbed the last dreamless sleep.

Night found Inez sitting alone by her dreary, deserted hearth.  Father, mother, sister, cousin, all had passed on before her; and the last of her house, she mused in her lonely home.  A faint fire flickering on the hearth just revealed the form and face of the Mexican maiden.  Her mantilla lay on the floor beside her, the black hair, thick and straight, hung to the waist, her brilliant, piercing eyes were bent vacantly on the fire, her dark cheek perfectly colorless as clay.

“Who is there to care for Inez now?  Who will smooth my pillow, and close my eyes, and lay me to rest?”

Her desolation of heart conquered; her head sunk upon her bosom, and a deep, bitter groan burst from her lips.  Slowly she rocked herself to and fro in the loneliness of her spirit.

She had not loved her father warmly; there was little congeniality between them, and her hasty rejection of Manuel’s suit mutually embittered their intercourse.  For Nevarro, a sort of sisterly feeling was entertained, no warmer affection.  Yet she could love intensely.  A little sister had waked her tenderness—­her heart clung to the gentle child, so unlike herself.  She sickened, and in a day went down to the tomb:  bitter was the grief of Inez, who felt little for her mother, and soon she too took her place in the churchyard.  Dr. Bryant came, and again Inez loved—­again she was disappointed; and now she sat alone in the wide world, without one remaining tie to bind the future.

The hour of bitterness had come.  She looked upon that dreary future and her utter desolation, and no gleam of hope stole to her darkened soul.  An almost vacant expression settled on the dark countenance of the once beautiful maiden.  Softly the door was pushed ajar, and the form of the Padre stood within.  By instinct she seemed aware of his entrance, for raising her bowed head, the black sparkling eyes flashed, and the broad brow wrinkled into a frown dark as night.  He approached her, and they stood face to face upon the hearth.