ace."
Manuel's face softened somewhat, but he replied in the same determined
tone--"The Padre says she is an accursed heretic, and he will not
rest till she is far away. But I tell you now, Inez, she will not be
harmed; for he said he would see that she was protected, and would
himself take her to a place of safety. He said she had been kind to
our people, and none should molest her or her cousin; but leave all to
him."
"If the Padre promised, he will place them in safety; he never forgets
to do what he says. I am satisfied, Manuel; and for the rest of the
Americans, the sooner they are driven out the better."
"You say truly, Inez, the sooner the better: all, all shall go, even
their Doctor, that carries himself with such a lordly air, and sits
in saddle as though never man had horse before. But the moon is up; I
must return, for I watch to-night, and must be back in time." He put
on his hat as he spoke.
"Manuel, come as often as you can, and let me know what is going on.
You are the only one whose word I believe; there are so many strange
tales nowadays, I put little faith in any. And before you go, put this
crucifix about your neck: 'twill save you in time of danger, and think
of Inez when you see it." She undid the fastening which held it round
her own throat, and pressing it to her lips, laid it in his hand.
Astonished at a proof of tenderness so unexpected, Manuel caught
her in his arms, but disengaging herself, she shook her finger
threateningly at him, and pointed to the door. He lighted his
cigarrita, and promising to come often, returned to the Alamo.
Left alone, the Spanish maiden sought her own apartment, muttering as
she ascended the steps--"The Padre protect you, Mary! Yes, even as
the hawk the new chicken. Take thee to a place of safety! even as the
eagle bears the young lamb to his eyrie. Yes, Manuel, I have bound
the handkerchief about your eyes, You think I love you, and trust both
Padre and crucifix! Trust on, I too have been deceived."
CHAPTER XIV.
More like somnambulism than waking reality was now the life of
Florence Hamilton. No duty was unperformed, so exertion spared to
conduce to the comfort of the now diminished family circle. No words
of repining or regret were uttered--no tear dimmed the large dark
eyes. She moved and lived as it were mechanically, without the agency
of feeling or sympathy; yet though she obtruded her grief on none,
it was equally true that no gleam
|