make the best of the necessity. Try and get mi madre to
feel this."

"I can do that with a few words, and tears, and kisses. Mi madre is like
one's good angel--very easy to persuade."

"And now we must try and sleep, queridita."

"Are you sure there is no danger to-night, Antonia?"

"Not to-night. Say your prayer, and sleep in God's presence. There
is yet nothing to fear. Ortiz and Lopez Navarro are watching every
movement."

But at three o'clock in the morning, the quiet of their rest was broken
by sharp bugle calls. The stars were yet in the sky, and all was so
still that they thrilled the air like something unearthly. Antonia
started up, and ran to the roof. Bugle was answering bugle; and their
tones were imperative and cruel, as if they were blown by evil spirits.
It was impossible to avoid the feeling that the call was a PREDESTINED
summons, full of the notes of calamity. She was weighed down by this
sorrowful presentiment, because, as yet, neither experience nor years
had taught her that PREDESTINED ILLS ARE NEVER LOST.

The unseen moving multitudes troubled the atmosphere between them. In
wild, savage gusts, she heard the military bands playing the infamous
Dequelo, whose notes of blood and fire commingled, shrieked in every
ear--"NO QUARTER! NO QUARTER!" A prolonged shout, the booming of cannon,
an awful murmurous tumult, a sense of horror, of crash and conflict,
answered the merciless, frenzied notes, and drowned them in the shrieks
and curses they called for.

It was yet scarcely dawn. Her soul, moved by influences so various and
so awful, became almost rebellious. Why did God permit such cruelties?
Did He know? Would He allow a handful of men to be overpowered by
numbers? Being omnipotent, would He not in some way, at least, make the
fight equal? The instinct of her anglo-American nature revolted at the
unfairness of the struggle. Even her ejaculations to heaven were in this
spirit. "It is so unjust," she murmured; "surely the Lord of Hosts will
prevent a fight which must be a massacre."

As she went about the simple preparations for their breakfast, she wept
continuously--tears of indignation and sorrow--tears coming from the
strength of feeling, rather than its weakness. The Senora could eat
nothing. Isabel was white with terror. They wandered from window to
window in the last extremity of anxiety.

About seven o'clock they saw Ortiz pass the house. There were so many
people on the road he could