your own words make it more than ever necessary that we should part forever.  I cannot return your love—­I will not encourage it.  You must, as soon as safety allows, return to your old home.  Inez, do not cherish your affection for me, it can only bring pain and remorse; forget me, and remember that you have imperative duties of your own to perform.  This is your darkest hour, and believe me, in time you will be happy, and a blessing to your people.  Remember Mary’s words, and her parting gift, and I pray God that we may so live that we shall all meet in a happier home.”

“Then I shall never see you again?” she said, in a calm and unfaltering voice.

“For your sake, Inez, it is best that we should not meet again.  If I survive this war I go to Europe, and you will probably never see me more.  Inez, I pain you—­forgive me.  Your own good requires this candor on my part.”

An ashy paleness overspread the cheek and brow of his companion as he spoke, and the small hands clutched each other tightly, yet no words passed the quivering lips.

“Good-by, Inez! my kind and valued friend, good-by!” He held out his hand.  She raised her head, and gazed into the sad yet noble face of the man she had loved so long.  She clasped his hand between both hers, and a moan of bitter anguish escaped the lips.

“My love will follow you forever!  A woman of my nature cannot forget.  I shall sink to eternal rest with your name on my lips—­your image in my heart.  Yet I would not keep you here—­go, and may your God ever bless you, and—­and—­may you at last meet your Mary, if there be a heaven!  We part now, for you have said it; good-by, and sometimes, when all is joy and gladness to you, think a moment on Inez! the cursed, the miserable Inez! sitting in bitter darkness by her lonely hearth!  Good-by!” She pressed her lips to his hand, and without a tear, shrouded her face in her mantilla and turned away.

“God bless you, Inez, and keep you from all harm!” and Dr. Bryant left the house, and returned to his commander.

* * * * *

Colonel Fanning had led his troops but a few miles when the vanguard halted, and some excitement was manifested.  Spurring forward, he inquired the cause of delay.

“Why, Colonel, if we ain’t ‘out of the frying-pan into the fire,’ my name is not Will Furgeson.  Look yonder, Colonel, it takes older and weaker eyes than mine to say them ain’t Santy Anna’s imps marching down upon us thick as bees just swarmed, too!”

“You are right, Furgeson; it is the entire Mexican force! let us form at once and meet them!”

Quick and clearly his orders rung out, and his little band, compact and firm, waited in silence the result.  With an exulting shout the Mexicans charged.  Desperately the doomed Texans fought, heaping up the slain at every step.  The wily Santa Anna changed his tactics.  There came a momentary cessation as the crowding thousands were furiously driven back.  And, seizing the opportunity, he spurred forward, offered honorable terms, and besought Fanning to surrender and save the lives of his brave followers.