THE PRISONERS

A boy and a man sat in a room of a stone house in the ancient City of Mexico, capital in turn of Aztec, Spaniard and Mexican.  They could see through the narrow windows masses of low buildings and tile roofs, and beyond, the swelling shape of great mountains, standing clear against the blue sky.  But they had looked upon them so often that the mind took no note of the luminous spectacle.  The cry of a water-seller or the occasional jingle of a spur came from the street below, but these, too, were familiar sounds, and they were no longer regarded.

The room contained but little furniture and the door was of heavy oak.  Its whole aspect indicated that it was a prison.  The man was of middle years, and his face showed a singular blend of kindness and firmness.  The pallor of imprisonment had replaced his usual color.  The boy was tall and strong and his cheeks were yet ruddy.  His features bore some resemblance to those of his older comrade.

“Ned,” said the man at last, “it has been good of you to stay with me here, but a prison is no place for a boy.  You must secure a release and go back to our people.”

The boy smiled, and his face, in repose rather stern for one so young, was illumined in a wonderful manner.

“I don’t want to leave you, Uncle Steve,” he said, “and if I did it’s not likely that I could.  This house is strong, and it’s a long way from here to Texas.”

“Perhaps I can induce them to let you go,” said the man.  “Why should they wish to hold one so young?”

Edward Fulton did not reply because he saw that Stephen Austin was speaking to himself rather than his companion.  Instead, he looked once more through the window and over the city at the vast white peaks of Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl silent and immutable, forever guarding the sky-line.  Yet they seemed to call to him at this moment and tell him of freedom.  The words of the man had touched a spring within him and he wanted to go.  He could not conceal from himself the fact that he longed for liberty with every pulse and fiber.  But he resolved, nevertheless, to stay.  He would not desert the one whom he had come to serve.

Stephen Austin, the real founder of Texas, had now been in prison in Mexico more than a year.  Coming to Saltillo to secure for the Texans better treatment from the Mexicans, their rulers, he had been seized and held as a criminal.  The boy, Edward Fulton, was not really his nephew, but an orphan, the son of a cousin.  He owed much to Austin and coming to the capital to help him he was sharing his imprisonment.

“They say that Santa Anna now has the power,” said Ned, breaking the somber silence.

“It is true,” said Stephen Austin, “and it is a new and strong reason why I fear for our people.  Of all the cunning and ambitious men in Mexico, Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna is the most cunning and ambitious.  I know, too, that he is the most able, and I believe that he is the most dangerous to those of us who have settled in Texas.  What a country is this Mexico!  Revolution after revolution!  You make a treaty with one president to-day and to-morrow another disclaims it!  More than one of them has a touch of genius, and yet it is obscured by childishness and cruelty!”