The Alameda, which she had just entered, was a long double row of majestic cotton-woods, which, stretching out in the direction of the Powder-House, was the favorite promenade with the inhabitants of the town.  Previous to the breaking out of the war numbers were to be seen here every afternoon, some walking, others playing games, another group dancing, and the graver portion of the company resting on the rude seats supplied for the purpose.  But their favorite resort was blood-stained, for the Alameda was the battle-field in the late desperate conflict, and the smooth surface was torn and trampled by the stamp of prancing cavalry.  Dark spots were still visible, that were yet damp with gore.  Just to the west rose the grim walls of the fort, distinctly seen through the opening between the trees.  Beyond where the avenue ceased, stood a low, irregular building of stone, thatched with tule.

Inez stood at the threshold and listened intently.  The place bore a desolate air, and neither sound nor light betokened the presence of a human being.  It had long been uninhabited, and some declared it was haunted, so that the Padre had some time before sprinkled holy water profusely about, in order to drive away the evil one.

Cautiously Inez tried the fastening; it swerved not beneath her firm, strong grasp.  She shook it slightly:  a hollow echo answered back.  Entrance was impossible; and even as she lingered irresolute, the sound of approaching steps was borne to her listening ears by the night wind.  What should she do?  Without a moment’s hesitation she glided swiftly to a cluster of chapperal, and crouched low among its thorny branches.  Inez had scarcely secreted herself, when the figure of a man, directing his steps to the house she had just left, warned her to keep quiet.  He stood still a moment, then knocked.  Drearily the knock resounded through the empty building.  Again was the signal for admission given, but no response greeted the anxious tympanums.

“Why in the name of twenty devils don’t you open the door?” and he shook it violently:  still no answer.

“I swear I’ll batter it down, and stretch you on it to boot, if you don’t let me in.  Why do you keep me waiting?  I am too late already.”

“Nay, nay; restrain your impatience,” said a voice behind him.

“By the saints, you are come in good time, Padre.  I had well-nigh made a soldier’s entrance.”

“No need of violence, Senor.  Why could not you wait in Christian patience?”

“Look here, my good friend.  I came not all the way from Mexico to listen to a lecture; and you will do well to save your canting for a better time and a worse man.  So, Mazzolin, just open the door of this cursed den.”

Roused by the bold language of the stranger, the Padre, though anxious to learn his errand, was still true to his policy, and could in no measure compromise the dignity of his person.

“There is no obligation resting on me to do so against my will, and no man shall bully or threaten me, a priest of our holy church.”  He had partially opened the door, but closed it again.