ck that
surrounded her. Pools of blood were yet standing, and the earth was
damp with gore. One by one Inez turned the motionless forms, still
the face she sought was not to be found. She had almost concluded her
search, when her eye fell on a prostrate form, closely wrapt in a long
black cloak; she knelt and gazed into the upturned face, and a low cry
of bitter anguish welled up and passed her colorless lips. Gently she
lifted the cloak, clasped by one icy hand: the ball had pierced his
side, and entered the heart. So instantaneous had been his death that
not a feature was convulsed. The dark clustering hair was borne back
from the broad white brow, the eyes closed as in deep sleep, the
finely-cut lips just parted. Pallid was the cheek, yet calm and noble
beyond degree was the marble face on which Inez gazed. She caught the
cold hand to her lips, and laid her cheek near his mouth, that she
might know and realize that his spirit had indeed joined Mary's in the
"land of rest." The icy touch extinguished every gleam of hope,
and calmly she drew the cloak over the loved face, concealing every
feature, then dropped her handkerchief upon the covered head, and
drawing her mantilla like a shroud about her, went her way to wait for
night and darkness.

Stretched on a couch in the home of the kind-hearted Senora who had
received her, Inez noted the moments and hours as they passed. An
eternity seemed comprised in the time which elapsed from noon till
dusk. Again and again she raised her bowed head, and looked out on the
slowly sinking sun. It passed at length beyond her vision. She rose
and sought her friend, an aged dame, whom God had gifted with a gentle
heart, keenly alive to the grief and sufferings of another.

"Well, Senorita Inez, what will you have?"

"I have a great favor to ask, yet it is one I doubt not will be
granted. Senora, among yonder slain is one who in life was ever kind
to me and to our people. Since morning he has lain in his own blood!
To-morrow will see them thrown into heaps, and left with scarce sod
enough to cover! I cannot, will not see him buried so! I myself will
lay him down to rest, if Santa Anna claims my life for it to-morrow!
I have caused a grave to be dug in a quiet spot, but I cannot bear him
to it unassisted. My strength is gone--I am well-nigh spent: will you
help me to-night? They will not miss him to-morrow, and none will know
till all is at rest! Senora, will you come with me?"

"Te