“I am better now—­the pain has almost left me, I am very sorry to trouble you so much, Dr. Bryant,”

“Trouble!” he murmured, as if communing with his own heart.  “I see you do not know me, nor ever will; for none have truly read my soul or sympathized.”  A look of bitterness passed over his face, and a sterner expression rested there than Mary had ever marked before.  She knew not what to reply, for she could not comprehend the change, and even as she pondered, he pointed to the western sky, and, much in his usual tone, asked: 

“Don’t you think the sunsets here exceed any you ever beheld elsewhere?”

“In brilliancy they certainly do.  Yet I love still better the soft tints which often linger till the stars come out.  I think they blend and harmonize more beautifully with the deep blue of the zenith than any I have seen before, and I have watched sunsets from my childhood.”

“You are right; I have noticed in more northern latitudes a very perceptible difference in the appearance of the firmament.  The moon, for instance, on cold, clear nights, presents a silvery, glittering disk, but the soft mellow light of a southern clime is wanting.”

While he spoke, the figure of a woman emerged from a house near by, and, softly approaching Mary’s horse, laid her finger on her lips, and, pressing a piece of paper into her hand, returned as silently as she came.  Dr. Bryant turned his head toward Mary as he finished speaking, and, catching a glimpse of the retreating form, looked inquiringly at her.

“I believe it was Inez, though the face was entirely concealed.  She did not speak, but gave me this paper,” and Mary unrolled the note: 

    “MARINITA,

“Santa Anna has crossed the Rio Grande with eight thousand men.  I warn you of your danger.  You can get horses now, for the Padre cannot control your people.  There are brave men in the Alamo, tell them of their danger.  Again I say, fly quickly from San Antonio.

    “INEZ.”

With a groan, Mary handed him the paper.  In silence he perused and returned it to her.

“Tell me, was it Inez who warned you before?”

“Yes, she told me we incurred unknown dangers by remaining here.”  He mused for several moments.

“Ah!  I can understand it all now.  Several nights ago, returning from the Alamo, I met her on the bridge alone; she seemed excited, I thought, and impatient at meeting me, for I questioned her rambling so late.”

“Inez is a warm friend, and what she advises I feel almost bound to do, for she is not timid, and only real danger rouses her apprehension.”

“Eight thousand men! and not two hundred to man the Alamo.  Inez is right; this is not a proper place for you.  We will go, as we once decided, to Washington; and when you are in safety, I will return and lend my efforts to the feeble garrison.”

They reached the gate, and he gently lifted the frail form from the saddle; and, drawing her arm through his, led her to the house.  As they entered, he bent his head and said, in, a low tone: