Ned was watching the commander as he wrote.  But he saw no expression of despair or even discouragement on Travis’ fine face.  The letter, which a messenger succeeded in carrying through the lines that night, breathed a noble and lofty courage.  He was telling again how few were his men, and how the balls and bombs had rained almost continuously for days upon the Alamo.  Even as his pen was poised they heard the heavy thud of a cannon, but the pen descended steadily and he wrote: 

“I shall continue to hold it until I get relief from my countrymen, or perish in its defence.”

He wrote on a little longer and once more came the heavy thud of a great gun.  Then the pen wrote: 

“Again I feel confident that the determined spirit and desperate courage heretofore exhibited by my men will not fail them in the last struggle, and, although they may be sacrificed to the vengeance of a Gothic enemy, the victory will cost that enemy so dear that it will be worse than a defeat.”

“Worse than a defeat!” Travis never knew how significant were the words that he penned then.  A minute or two later the sharp crack of a half dozen rifles came to them, and Travis wrote: 

“A blood-red flag waves from the church of Bexar and in the camp above us, in token that the war is one of vengeance against rebels.”

They heard the third heavy thud of a cannon, and a shell, falling in the court outside, burst with a great crash.  Ned went out and returned with a report of no damage.  Travis had continued his letter, and now he wrote: 

“These threats have no influence upon my men, but to make all fight with desperation, and with that high-souled courage which characterizes the patriot who is willing to die in defence of his country, liberty and his own honor, God and Texas.

“Victory or death.”

He closed the letter and addressed it.  An hour later the messenger was beyond the Mexican lines with it, but Travis sat for a long time at the table, unmoving and silent.  Perhaps he was blaming himself for not having been more watchful, for not having discovered the advance of Santa Anna.  But he was neither a soldier nor a frontiersman, and since the retreat into the Alamo he had done all that man could do.

He rose at last and went out.  Then Crockett said to Ned, knowing that it was now time to speak the full truth: 

“He has given up all hope of help.”

“So have I,” said Ned.

“But we can still fight,” said Crockett.

The day that followed was always like a dream to Ned, vivid in some ways, and vague in others.  He felt that the coil around the Alamo had tightened.  Neither he nor any one else expected aid now, and they spoke of it freely one to another.  Several who could obtain paper wrote, as Ned had done, brief wills, which they put in the inside pockets of their coats.  Always they spoke very gently to one another, these wild spirits of the border.  The strange and softening shadow which Ned had noticed before was deepening over them all.