One Sabbath morning Inez attended mass—­something unusual for her of late, for since Nevarro’s death she had secluded herself as much as possible.  She knelt in her accustomed place, with covered head, seemingly rapt in devotion, but the eyes rested with an abstracted expression on the wall beside her:  her thoughts were evidently wandering from her rosary, and now and then the black brows met as her forehead wrinkled; still the fingers slid with mechanical precision up and down the string of beads.  The services were brief and the few who had assembled quietly departed.  As Inez rose to go, the Padre, who was hastening down the aisle, was stopped by a Mexican in the garb of a trader.  They stood quite near, and the hoarse whisper of the latter fell on her listening ear.

“Meet me at the far end of the Alameda, when the moon rises to-night.”

“I will be there before you:  is there any good news?”

A finger was laid on the lip, and a significant nod and wink were not lost upon the maiden, who, bowing low before the Padre, walked slowly away.  The day wore on, much as Sabbaths ordinarily do, yet to her it seemed as though darkness would never fall again, and many times she looked out on the shadows cast by the neighboring houses athwart the street.  Twilight closed at last, and having placed her father’s evening meal before him, she cautiously gazed down the narrow alley, and perceiving no one stirring, sallied forth.  The stars gave a faint light, and she hurried on toward the bridge:  swift was her step, yet noiseless, and she glided on like a being from another world, so stealthy were her movements.  The bridge was gained at length and almost passed, when she descried in the surrounding gloom a dark figure approaching from the opposite direction.  Closer she drew the mantle about her form, and slackened her rapid pace.  They met, and the stranger paused and bent eagerly forward: 

“Who goes there?”

The voice was well known.  Inez’s heart gave a quick bound, and she answered: 

“Inez de Garcia!”

“Why, where are you roaming to this dark night, Inez?  Are you not afraid to venture out alone and so far from home?”

“No, Doctor, I have no fears; I was never a coward you know; and besides, who would harm me, an unoffending woman?  Surely your people will not molest me?”

“No, certainly not.  But, Inez, I hope you are not bending your steps toward the Alamo?”

“I am a friend to the Americans, though they have taken the last of my family there was to give.  Yet I will be true to Mary and to you.  Fear nothing for me, and let me pass on my errand.”

He stood aside.  “Bueno noche, Senorita.”

“Bueno noche;” and she glided on.  “I fear I have lost time;” and hastily glancing toward the east, she saw a faint light stealing up from the horizon.  Redoubling her speed she pushed on, but, despite her efforts, the moon rose with uncommon brilliance as she approached the place of rendezvous, and soon every object was bathed in a flood of light.