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Title: The Texan Star
       The Story of a Great Fight for Liberty


Author: Joseph A. Altsheler

Release Date: May 18, 2005  [eBook #15852]

Language: English

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THE TEXAN STAR

The Story of a Great Fight for Liberty

by

JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER

Author of
_The Quest of the Four_, _The Border Watch_,
_The Scouts of the Valley_, etc.

Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc.
New York

1912







PREFACE


"The Texan Star," while a complete story in itself, is the first of
three, projected by the author, and based upon the Texan struggle for
liberty against the power of Mexico. This revolution, epic in its
nature, and crowded with heroism and great events, divides itself
naturally into three parts.

The first phase begins in Mexico with the treacherous imprisonment of
Austin, the Texan leader, the rise of Santa Anna and his attempt,
through bad faith, to disarm the Texans and leave them powerless before
the Indians. It culminates in the rebellion of the Texans, and their
capture, in the face of great odds, of San Antonio, the seat of the
Mexican power in the north.

The second phase is the coming of Santa Anna with an overwhelming force,
the fall of the Alamo, the massacre of Goliad and the dark days of
Texas. Yet the period of gloom is relieved by the last stand of
Crockett, Bowie, and their famous comrades.

The third phase is the coming of light in the darkness, Houston's
crowning victory at San Jacinto, and the complete victory of the Texans.

The story of the Texan fight for freedom has always appealed to the
author, as one of the most remarkable of modern times.




                    CONTENTS

CHAPTER
    I  THE PRISONERS
   II  A HAIR-CUT
  III  SANCTUARY
   IV  THE PALM
    V  IN THE PYRAMID
   VI  THE MARCH WITH COS
  VII  THE DUNGEON UNDER THE SEA
 VIII  THE BLACK JAGUAR
   IX  THE RUINED TEMPLES
    X  CACTUS AND MEXICANS
   XI  THE LONG CHASE
  XII  THE TRIAL OF PATIENCE
 XIII  THE TEXANS
  XIV  THE RING TAILED PANTHER
   XV  THE FIRST GUN
  XVI  THE COMING OF URREA
 XVII  THE OLD CONVENT
XVIII  IN SAN ANTONIO
  XIX  THE BATTLE BY THE RIVER
   XX  THE WHEEL OF FIRE
  XXI  THE TEXAN STAR
 XXII  THE TAKING OF THE TOWN




THE TEXAN STAR




CHAPTER I

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!"

He sighed heavily. Ned, full of sympathy, glanced at him but said
nothing. Then his gaze turned back to the mighty peaks which stood so
sharp and clear against the blue. Truth and honesty were the most marked
qualities of Stephen Austin and he could not understand the vast web of
intrigue in which the Mexican capital was continually involved. And to
the young mind of the boy, cast in the same mold, it was yet more
baffling and repellent.

Ned still stared at the guardian peaks, but his thoughts floated away
from them. His head had been full of old romance when he entered the
vale of Tenochtitlan. He had almost seen Cortez and the conquistadores
in their visible forms with their armor clanking about them as they
stalked before him. He had gazed eagerly upon the lakes, the mighty
mountains, the low houses and the strange people. Here, deeds of which
the world still talked had been done centuries ago and his thrill was
strong and long. But the feeling was gone now. He had liked many of the
Mexicans and many of the Mexican traits, but he had felt with increasing
force that he could never reach out his hand and touch anything solid.
He thought of volcanic beings on a volcanic soil.

The throb of a drum came from the street below, and presently the shrill
sound of fifes was mingled with the steady beat. Ned stood up and
pressed his head as far forward as the bars of the window would let him.

"Soldiers, a regiment, I think," he said. "Ah, I can see them now! What
brilliant uniforms their officers wear!"

Austin also looked out.

"Yes," he said. "They know how to dress for effect. And their music is
good, too. Listen how they play."

It was a martial air, given with a splendid lilt and swing. The tune
crept into Ned's blood and his hand beat time on the stone sill. But the
music increased his longing for liberty. His thoughts passed away from
the narrow street and the marching regiment to the North, to the wild
free plains beyond the Rio Grande. It was there that his heart was, and
it was there that his body would be.

"It is General Cos who leads them," said Austin. "I can see him now,
riding upon a white horse. It's the man in the white and silver uniform,
Ned."

"He's the brother-in-law of Santa Anna, is he not?"

"Yes, and I fear him. I know well, Ned, that he hates the Texans--all of
us."

"Perhaps the regiment that we see now is going north against our
people."

Austin's brows contracted.

"It may be so," he said. "They give soft words all the time, and yet
they hold me a prisoner here. It would be like them to strike while
pretending to clear away all the troubles between us."

He sighed again. Ned watched the soldiers until the last of them had
passed the window, and then he listened to the music, the sound of drum
and fife, until it died away, and they heard only the usual murmur of
the city. Then the homesickness, the longing for the great free country
to the north grew upon him and became almost overpowering.

"Someone comes," said Austin.

They heard the sound of the heavy bar that closed the door being moved
from its place.

"Our dinner, doubtless," said Austin, "but it is early."

The door swung wide and a young Mexican officer entered. He was taller
and fairer than most of his race, evidently of pure Northern Spanish
blood, and his countenance was frank and fine.

"Welcome, Lieutenant," said Stephen Austin, speaking in Spanish, which
he, as well as Ned, understood perfectly. "You know that we are always
glad to see you here."

Lieutenant Alfonso de Zavala smiled in a quick, responsive way, but in a
moment his face became grave.

"I announce a visitor, a most distinguished visitor, Mr. Austin," he
said. "General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, President of the Mexican
Republic and Commander-in-chief of its armies and navies."

Both Mr. Austin and the boy arose and bowed as a small man of middle
years, slender and nervous, strode into the room, standing for a few
moments near its center, and looking about him like a questing hawk. His
was, in truth, an extraordinary presence. He seemed to radiate an
influence that at once attracted and repelled. His dark features were
cut sharply and clearly. His eyes, set closely together, were of the
most intense black that Ned had ever seen in a human head. Nor were
those eyes ever at rest. They roamed over everything, and they seemed to
burn every object for the single instant they fell there. They never met
the gaze of either American squarely, although they continually came
back to both.

This man was clothed in a white uniform, heavy with gold stripes and
gold epaulets. A small sword at his side had a gold hilt set with a
diamond. He wore a three-cornered hat shaped like that of Napoleon, but
instead of the Corsican's simple gray his was bright in color and
splendid with plumage.

He was at once a powerful and sinister figure. Ned felt that he was in
the presence of genius, but it belonged to one of those sinuous
creatures, shining and terrible, that are bred under the vivid sun of
the tropics. There was a singular sensation at the roots of his hair,
but, resolved to show neither fear nor apprehension, he stood and gazed
directly at Santa Anna.

"Be seated, Mr. Austin," said the General, "and close the door, de
Zavala, but remain with us. Your young relative can remain, also. I have
things of importance to say, but it is not forbidden to him, also, to
hear them."

Ned sat down and so did Mr. Austin and young de Zavala, but Santa Anna
remained standing. It seemed to Ned that he did so because he wished to
look down upon them from a height. And all the time the black eyes, like
two burning coals, played restlessly about the room.

Ned was unable to take his own eyes away. The figure in its gorgeous
uniform was so full of nervous energy that it attracted like a magnet,
while at the same time it bade all who opposed to beware. The boy felt
as if he were before a splendid leopard with no bars of a cage between.

Santa Anna took three or four rapid steps back and forth. He kept his
hat upon his head, a right, it seemed, due to his superiority to other
people. He looked like a man who had a great thought which he was
shaping into quick words. Presently he stopped before Austin, and shot
him one of those piercing glances.

"My friend and guest," he said in the sonorous Spanish.

Austin bowed. Whether the subtle Mexican meant the words in satire or
in earnest he did not know, nor did he care greatly.

"When I call you my friend and guest I speak truth," said Santa Anna.
"It is true that we had you brought here from Saltillo, and we insist
that you accept our continued hospitality, but it is because we know how
devoted you are to our common Mexico, and we would have you here at our
right hand for advice and help."

Ned saw Mr. Austin smile a little sadly. It all seemed very strange to
the boy. How could one talk of friendship and hospitality to those whom
he held as prisoners? Why could not these people say what they meant?
Again he longed for the free winds of the plains.

"You and I together should be able to quiet these troublesome Texans,"
continued Santa Anna--and his voice had a hard metallic quality that
rasped the boy's nerves. "You know, Stephen Austin, that I and Mexico
have endured much from the people whom you have brought within our
borders. They shed good Mexican blood at the fort, Velasco, and they
have attacked us elsewhere. They do not pay their taxes or obey our
decrees, and when I send my officers to make them obey they take down
their long rifles."

Austin smiled again, and now the watching boy thought the smile was not
sad at all. If Santa Anna took notice he gave no sign.

"But you are reasonable," continued the Mexican, and now his manner was
winning to an extraordinary degree. "It was my predecessor, Farias, who
brought you here, but I would not see you go, because I love you like a
brother, and now I have come to you, that between us we may calm your
turbulent Texans."

"But you must bear in mind," said Austin, "that our rights have been
taken from us. All the clauses of our charter have been broken, and now
your Congress has decreed that we shall have only one soldier to every
five hundred inhabitants and that all the rest of us shall be disarmed.
How are we, in a wild country, to protect ourselves from the Comanches,
Lipans and other Indians who roam everywhere, robbing and murdering?"

Austin's face, usually so benevolent, flushed and his eyes were very
bright. Ned looked intently at Santa Anna to see how he would take the
daring and truthful indictment. But the Mexican showed no confusion,
only astonishment. He threw up his hands in a vivid southern gesture and
looked at Austin in surprised reproof.

"My friend," he said in injured but not angry tones, "how can you ask me
such a question? Am I not here to protect the Texans? Am I not President
of Mexico? Am I not head of the Mexican army? My gallant soldiers, my
horsemen with their lances and sabers, will draw a ring around the
Texans through which no Comanche or Lipan, however daring, will be able
to break."

He spoke with such fire, such appearance of earnestness, that Ned,
despite a mind uncommonly keen and analytical in one so young, was
forced to believe for a moment. Texas, however, was far and immense, and
there were not enough soldiers in all America to put a ring around the
wild Comanches. But the impression remained longer with Austin, who was
ever hoping for the best, and ever seeing the best in others.

Ned was a silent boy who had suffered many hardships, and he had
acquired the habit of thought which in its turn brought observation and
judgment. Yet if Santa Anna was acting he was doing it with consummate
skill, and the boy who never said a word watched him all the time.

Santa Anna began to talk now of the great future that awaited the Texans
under the banner of Mexico. He poured forth the words with so much Latin
fervor that it was almost like listening to a song. Ned felt the
influence of the musical roll coming over him again, but, with an effort
of the will that was almost physical, he shook it off.

Santa Anna painted the picture of a dream, a gorgeous dream of many
colors. Mexico was to become a mighty country and the Texans with their
cool courage and martial energy would be no mean factor in it. Austin
would be one of his lieutenants, a sharer in his greatness and reward.
His eloquence was wonderful, and Ned felt once more the fascination of
the serpent. This was a man to whom only the grand and magnificent
appealed, and already he had achieved a part of his dream.

Ned moved a little closer to the window. He wished the fresh air to blow
upon his face. He saw that Mr. Austin was fully under the spell. Santa
Anna was making the most beautiful and convincing promises. He himself
was going to Texas. He was the father of his people. He would right
every wrong. He loved the Texans, these children of the north who had
come to his country for a home. No one could ever say that he appealed
in vain to Santa Anna for protection. Texans would be proud that they
were a part of Mexico, they would be glad to belong to a nation which
already had a glorious history, and to come to a capital which had more
splendor and romance than any other in America.

Ned literally withdrew his soul within itself. He sought to shut out the
influence that was radiating from this singular and brilliant figure,
but he saw that Mr. Austin was falling more deeply under it.

"Look!" said Santa Anna, taking the man by the arm in the familiar
manner that one old friend has with another and drawing him to the
window. "Is not this a prospect to enchant? Is not this a capital of
which you and I can well be proud?"

He lifted a forefinger and swept the half curve that could be seen from
the window. It was truly a panorama that would kindle the heart of the
dullest. Forty miles away the white crests of Popocatepetl and
Ixtaccihuatl still showed against the background of burning blue, like
pillars supporting the dome of heaven. Along the whole line of the half
curve were mountains in fold on fold. Below the green of the valley
showed the waters of the lake both fresh and salt gleaming with gold
where the sunlight shot down upon them. Nearer rose the spires of the
cathedral, and then the sea of tile roofs burnished by the vivid beams.

Santa Anna stood in a dramatic position, his finger still pointing.
There was scarcely a day that Ned did not feel the majesty of this
valley of Tenochtitlan, but Santa Anna deepened the spell. Could the
world hold another place its equal? Might not the Texans indeed have a
glorious future in the land of which this city was the capital? Poetry
and romance appealed powerfully to the boy's thoughtful mind, and he
felt that here in Mexico he was at their very heart. Nothing else had
ever moved him so much.

"You are pleased! It impresses you!" said Santa Anna to Austin. "I can
see it on your face. You are with us. You are one of us. Ah, my friend,
how noble it is to have a great heart."

"Do I go with your message to the Texans?" asked Austin.

"I must leave now, but I shall come again soon, and I will tell you
all. You shall carry words that will satisfy every one of them."

He threw his arms about Austin's shoulders, gave Ned a quick salute, and
then left the room, taking young de Zavala with him, Ned heard the heavy
bar fall in place on the outside of the door, and he knew that they were
shut in as tightly as ever. But Mr. Austin was in a glow.

"What a wonderful, flexible mind!" he said, more to himself than to the
boy. "I could have preferred a sort of independence for Texas, but since
we're to be ruled from the City of Mexico, Santa Anna will do the best
he can for us. As soon as he sweeps away the revolutionary troubles he
will repair all our injuries."

Ned was silent. He knew that the generous Austin was still under Santa
Anna's magnetic spell, but after his departure the whole room was
changed to the boy. He saw clearly again. There were no mists and clouds
about his mind. Moreover, the wonderful half curve before the window was
changing. Vapors were rolling up from the south and the two great peaks
faded from view. Trees and water in the valley changed to gray. The
skies which had been so bright now became somber and menacing.

The boy felt a deep fear at his heart, but Mr. Austin seemed to be yet
under the influence of Santa Anna, and talked cheerfully of their speedy
return to Texas. Ned listened in silence and unbelief, while the gloom
outside deepened, and night presently came over Anahuac. But he had
formed his resolution. He owed much to Mr. Austin. He had come a vast
distance to be at his side, and to serve him in prison, but he felt now
that he could be of more use elsewhere. Moreover, he must carry a
message, a warning to those who needed it sorely. One of the windows
opened upon the north, and he looked intently through it trying to
pierce, with the mind's eye at least, the thousand miles that lay
between him and those whom he would reach with the word.

Mr. Austin had lighted a candle. Noticing the boy's gloomy face, he
patted him on the head with a benignant hand and said:

"Don't be down of heart, Edward, my lad. We'll soon be on our way to
Texas."

"But this is Mexico, and it is Santa Anna who holds us."

"That is true, and it is Santa Anna who is our best friend."

Ned did not dispute the sanguine saying. He saw that Mr. Austin had his
opinion, and he had his. The door was opened again in a half hour and a
soldier brought them their supper. Young de Zavala, who was their
immediate guardian, also entered and stood by while they ate. They had
never received poor food, and to-night Mexican hospitality exerted
itself--at the insistence of Santa Anna, Ned surmised. In addition to the
regular supper there was an ice and a bottle of Spanish wine.

"The President has just given an order that the greatest courtesy be
shown to you at all times," said de Zavala, "and I am very glad. I, too,
have people in that territory of ours from which you come--Texas."

He spoke with undeniable sympathy, and Ned felt his heart warm toward
him, but he decided to say nothing. He feared that he might betray by
some chance word the plan that he had in mind. But Mr. Austin, believing
in others because he was so truthful and honest himself, talked freely.

"All our troubles will soon be over," he said to de Zavala.

"I hope so, Señor," said the young man earnestly.

By and by, when de Zavala and the soldier were gone, Ned went again to
the window, stood there a few moments to harden his resolution, and then
came back to the man.

"Mr. Austin," he said, "I am going to ask your consent to something."

The Texan looked up in surprise.

"Why, Edward, my lad," he said kindly, "you don't have to ask my consent
to anything, after the way in which you have already sacrificed yourself
for me."

"But I am not going to stay with you any longer, Mr. Austin--that is, if
I can help it. I am going back to Texas."

Mr. Austin laughed. It was a mellow and satisfied laugh.

"So you are, Edward," he said, "and I am going with you. You will help
me to bear a message of peace and safety to the Texans."

Ned paused a moment, irresolute. There was no change in his
determination. He was merely uncertain about the words to use.

"There may be delays," he said at last, "and--Mr. Austin, I have decided
to go alone--and within the next day or two if I can."

The Texan's face clouded.

"I cannot understand you," he said. "Why this hurry? It would in reality
be a breach of faith to our great friend, Santa Anna--that is, if you
could go. I don't believe you can."

Ned was troubled. He was tempted to tell what was in his mind, but he
knew that he would not be believed, so he fell back again upon his
infinite capacity for silence. Mr. Austin read resolution in the closed
lips and rigid figure.

"Do you really mean that you will attempt to steal away?" he asked.

"As soon as I can."

The man shook his head.

"It would be better not to do so," he said, "but you are your own
master, and I see I cannot dissuade you from the attempt. But, boy, you
will promise me not to take any unnecessary or foolish risks?"

"I promise gladly, and, Mr. Austin, I hate to leave you here."

Their quarters were commodious and Ned slept alone in a small room to
the left of the main apartment. It was a bare place with only a bed and
a chair, but it was lighted by a fairly large window. Ned examined this
window critically. It had a horizontal iron bar across the middle, and
it was about thirty feet from the ground. He pulled at the iron bar with
both hands but, although rusty with time, it would not move in its
socket. Then he measured the two spaces between the bar and the wall.

Hope sprang up in the boy's heart. Then he did a strange thing. He
removed nearly all his clothing and tried to press his head and
shoulders between the bar and the wall. His head, which was of the long
narrow type, so common in the scholar, would have gone through the
aperture, had it not been for his hair which was long, and which grew
uncommonly thick. His shoulders were very thick and broad and they, too,
halted him. He drew back and felt a keen thrill of disappointment.

But he was a boy who usually clung tenaciously to an idea, and, sitting
down, he concentrated his mind upon the plan that he had formed. By and
by a possible way out came to him. Then he lay down upon the bed, drew a
blanket over him because the night was chill in the City of Mexico, and
calmly sought sleep.




CHAPTER II

A HAIR-CUT


The optimism of Mr. Austin endured the next morning, but Ned was gloomy.
Since it was his habit to be silent, the man did not notice it at first.
The breakfast was good, with tortillas, frijoles, other Mexican dishes
and coffee, but the boy had no appetite. He merely picked at his food,
made a faint effort or two to drink his coffee and finally put the cup
back almost full in the saucer. Then Mr. Austin began to observe.

"Are you ill, Ned?" he asked. "Is this imprisonment beginning to tell
upon you? I had thought that you were standing it well. Can't you eat?"

"I don't believe I'm hungry," replied the boy, "but there is nothing
else the matter with me. I'll be all right, Uncle Steve. Don't you
bother about me."

He ate a little breakfast, about one half of the usual amount, and then,
asking to be excused, went to the window, where he again stared out at
the tiled roofs, the green foliage in the valley of Mexico and the
ranges and peaks beyond. He was taking his resolution, and he was
carrying it out, but it was hard, very hard. He foresaw that he would
have to strengthen his will many, many times. Mr. Austin took no further
worry on Ned's account, thinking that he would be all right again in a
day or two.

But at the dinner which was brought to them in the middle of the day
Ned showed a marked failure of appetite, and Mr. Austin felt real
concern. The boy, however, was sure that he would be all right before
the day was over.

"It must be the lack of fresh air and exercise," said Mr. Austin. "You
can really take exercise in here, Ned. Besides, you said that you were
going to escape. If you fall ill you will have no chance at all."

He spoke half in jest, but Ned took him seriously.

"I am not ill, Uncle Steve," he said. "I really feel very well, but I
have lost my appetite. Maybe I am getting tired of these Mexican
dishes."

"Take exercise! take exercise!" said Mr. Austin with emphasis.

"I think I will," said Ned.

Physical exercise, after all, fitted in with his ideas, and that
afternoon he worked hard at all the gymnastic feats possible within the
three rooms to which they were confined. De Zavala came in and expressed
his astonishment at the athletic feats, which Ned continued with
unabated zeal despite his presence.

"Why do you do these things?" he asked in wonder.

"To keep myself strong and healthy. I ought to have begun them sooner.
The Mexican air is depressing, and I find that I am losing my appetite."

De Zavala's eyes opened wide while Ned deftly turned a handspring. Then
the young American sat down panting, his face flushed with as healthy a
color as one could find anywhere.

"You'll have an appetite to-night," said Mr. Austin. But to his great
amazement Ned again played with his food, eating only half the usual
amount.

"You're surely ill," said Mr. Austin. "I've no doubt de Zavala would
allow us to have a physician, and I shall ask him for one."

"Don't do it, Uncle Steve," begged Ned. "There's nothing at all the
matter with me, and anyhow I wouldn't want a Mexican doctor fussing over
me. I've probably been eating too much."

Mr. Austin was forced to accede. The boy certainly did not look ill, and
his appetite was bound to become normal again in a few days. But it did
not. As far as Mr. Austin could measure it, Ned was eating less and
less. It was obvious that he was thinner. He was also growing much
paler, except for a red flush on the cheek bones. Mr. Austin became
alarmed, but Ned obstinately refused any help, always asserting with
emphasis that he had no ailment of any kind. But the man could see that
he had become much lighter, and he wondered at the boy's physical
failure. De Zavala, also, expressed his sorrow in sonorous Spanish, but
Ned, while thanking them, steadily disclaimed any need of sympathy.

The boy found the days hard, but the nights were harder. For the first
time in his life he could not sleep well. He would lie for hours so wide
awake that his eyes grew used to the dark, and he could see everything
in his room. He was troubled, too, by bad dreams and in many of these
dreams he was a living skeleton, wandering about and condemned to live
forever without food. More than once he bitterly regretted the
resolution he had taken, but having taken it, he would never alter it.
His silent, concentrated nature would not let him. Yet he endured
undoubted torture day by day. Torture was the only name for it.

"I shall send an application to President Santa Anna to have you allowed
a measure of liberty," said Mr. Austin finally. "You are simply pining
away here, Edward, my lad. You cannot eat, that is, you eat only a
little. I have passed the most tempting and delicate things to you and
you always refuse. No boy of your age would do so unless something were
very much wrong with his physical system. You have lost many pounds, and
if this keeps on I do not know what will happen to you. I shall not ask
for more liberty for you, but you must have a doctor at once."

"I do not want any doctor, Uncle Steve," said the boy. "He cannot do me
any good, but there is somebody else whom I want."

"Who is he?"

"A barber."

"A barber! Now what good can a barber do you?"

"A great deal. What I crave most in the world is a hair-cut, and only a
barber can do that for me. My hair has been growing for more than three
months, Uncle Steve, and you've seen how extremely thick it is. Now it
is so long, too, that it's falling all about my eyes. Its weight is
oppressing my brain. I feel a little touch of fever now and then, and I
believe it's this awful hair."

He ran his fingers through the heavy locks until his head seemed to be
surrounded with a defense like the quills of a porcupine. Beneath the
great bush of hair his gray eyes glowed in a pale, thin face.

"There is a lot of it," said Mr. Austin, surveying him critically, "but
it is not usual for anybody in our situation to be worrying about the
length and abundance of his hair."

"I'm sure I'd be a lot better if I could get it cut close."

"Well, well, if you are taking it so much to heart we'll see what can be
done. You are ill and wasted, Edward, and when one is in that condition
a little thing can affect his spirits. De Zavala is a friendly sort of
young fellow and through him we will send a request to Colonel Sandoval,
the commander of the prisons, that you be allowed to have your hair
cut."

"If you please, Uncle Steve," said Ned gratefully.

Mr. Austin was not wrong in his forecast about Lieutenant de Zavala. He
showed a full measure of sympathy. Hence a petition to Colonel Martin
Sandoval y Dominguez, commander of prisons in the City of Mexico, was
drawn up in due form. It stated that one Edward Fulton, a Texan of
tender years, now in detention at the capital, was suffering from the
excessive growth of hair upon his head. The weight and thickness of said
hair had heated his brain and destroyed his appetite. In ordinary cases
of physical decline a physician was needed most, but so far as young
Edward Fulton was concerned, a barber could render the greatest service.

The petition, duly endorsed and stamped, was forwarded to Colonel Martin
Sandoval y Dominguez, and, after being gravely considered by him in the
manner befitting a Mexican officer of high rank and pure Spanish
descent, received approval. Then he chose among the barbers one Joaquin
Menendez, a dark fellow who was not of pure Spanish descent, and sent
him to the prison with de Zavala to accomplish the needed task.

"I hope you will be happy now, Edward," said Mr. Austin, when the two
Mexicans came. "You are a good boy, but it seems to me that you have
been making an undue fuss about your hair."

"I'm quite sure I shall recover fast," said Ned.

It was hard for him to hide his happiness from the others. He felt a
thrill of joy every time the steel of the scissors clicked together and
a lock of hair fell to the floor. But Joaquin Menendez, the barber, had
a Southern temperament and the soul of an artist. It pained him to
shear away--"shear away" alone described it--such magnificent hair. It
was so thick, so long and so glossy.

"Ah," he said, laying some of the clipped locks across his hand and
surveying them sorrowfully, "so great is the pity! What señorita could
resist the young señor if these were still growing upon his head!"

"You cut that hair," said Ned with a vicious snap of his teeth, "and cut
it close, so close that it will look like the shaven face of a man. I
think you will find it so stated in the conditions if you will look at
the permit approved in his own handwriting by Colonel Sandoval y
Dominguez."

Joaquin Menendez, still the artist, but obedient to the law, heaved a
deep sigh, and proceeded with his sad task. Lock by lock the abundant
hair fell, until Ned's head stood forth in the shaven likeness of a
man's face that he had wished.

"I must tell you," said Mr. Austin, "that it does not become you, but I
hope you are satisfied."

"I am satisfied," replied Ned. "I have every cause to be. I know I shall
have a stronger appetite to-morrow."

"You are certainly a sensitive boy," said Mr. Austin, looking at him in
some wonder. "I did not know that such a thing could influence your
feelings and your physical condition so much."

Ned made no reply, but that night he ate supper with a much better
appetite than he had shown in many days, bringing words of warm approval
and encouragement from Mr. Austin.

An hour or two later, when cheerful good-nights had been exchanged, Ned
withdrew to his own little room. He lay down upon his bed, but he was
fully clothed and he had no intention of sleep. Instead the boy was
transformed. For days he had been walking with a weak and lagging gait.
Fever was in his veins. Sometimes he became dizzy, and the walls and
floors of the prison swam before him. But now the spirit had taken
command of the thin body. Weakness and dizziness were gone. Every vein
was infused with strength. Hope was in command, and he no longer doubted
that he would succeed.

He rose from the bed and went to the window. The city was silent and the
night was dark. Floating clouds hid the moon and stars. The ranges and
the city roofs themselves had sunk into the dusk. It seemed to him that
all things favored the bold and persevering. And he had been
persevering. No one would ever know how he had suffered, what terrific
pangs had assailed him. He could not see now how he had done it, and he
was quite sure that he could never go through such an ordeal again. The
rack would be almost as welcome.

Ned did not know it, but a deep red flush had come into each pale cheek.
He removed most of his clothes, and put his head forward between the
iron bar and the window sill. The head went through and the shoulders
followed. He drew back, breathing a deep and mighty breath of triumph.
Yet he had known that it would be so. When he first tried the space he
had been only a shade too large for it. Now his head and shoulders would
go between, but with nothing to spare. A sheet of paper could not have
been slipped in on either side. Yet it was enough. The triumph of
self-denial was complete.

He had thought several times of telling Mr. Austin, but he finally
decided not to do so. He might seek to interfere. He would put a
thousand difficulties in the way, some real and some imaginary. It would
save the feelings of both for him to go quietly, and, when Mr. Austin
missed him, he would know why and how he had gone.

Ned stood at the window a little while longer, listening. He heard far
away the faint rattle of a saber, probably some officer of Santa Anna
who was going to a place outside a lattice, the sharp cry of a Mexican
upbraiding his lazy mule, and the distant note of a woman singing an old
Spanish song. It was as dark as ever, with the clouds rolling over the
great valley of Tenochtitlan, which had seen so much of human passion
and woe. Ned, brave and resolute as he was, shivered. He was oppressed
by the night and the place. It seemed to him, for the moment, that the
ghosts of stern Cortez, and of the Aztecs themselves were walking out
there.

Then he did a characteristic thing. Folding his arms in front of him he
grasped his own elbows and shook himself fiercely. The effort of will
and body banished the shapes and illusions, and he went to work with
firm hands.

He tore the coverings from his bed into strips, and knotted them
together stoutly, trying each knot by tying the strip to the bar, and
pulling on it with all his strength. He made his rope at least thirty
feet long and then gave it a final test, knot by knot. He judged that it
was now near midnight and the skies were still very dark. Inside of a
half hour he would be gone--to what? He was seized with an intense
yearning to wake up Mr. Austin and tell him good-by. The Texan leader
had been so good to him, he would worry so much about him that it was
almost heartless to slip away in this manner. But he checked the
impulse again, and went swiftly ahead with his work.

He kept on nothing but his underclothing and trousers. The rest he made
up into a small package which he tied upon his back. He was sorry that
he did not have any weapon. He had been deprived of even his
pocket-knife, but he did have a few dollars of Spanish coinage, which he
stowed carefully in his trousers pocket. All the while his energy
endured despite his wasted form. Hope made a bridge for his weakness.

He let the line out of the window, and his delicate sense told him when
it struck against the ground. Six or eight feet were left in his hand,
and he tied the end firmly to the bar, knotting it again and again. Then
he slipped through the opening and the passage was so close that his
ears scraped as they went by. He hung for a few moments on the outside,
his feet on the stone sill and his hands clasping the iron bar. He felt
sheer and absolute terror. The spires of the cathedral were invisible
and only a few far lights showed dimly. It seemed to him that he was
suspended over a bottomless pit, and he shivered from head to foot.

But he recalled his courage. Such a black night was best suited to his
task. The shivering ceased. Hope ruled once more. He knelt on the stone
sill, and, grasping his crude rope with both hands, let himself down
from the window. It required almost superhuman exertion to keep himself
from dropping sheer away, and the rope burned his palms. But he held on,
knowing that he must hold, and the stone wall felt cold to him, as he
lay against it, and slid slowly down.

Perhaps his strength, which was more of the mind than of the body,
partly gave way under such a severe strain, but he felt pains shooting
through his arms, shoulders and chest. His most vivid recollections of
the descent were the coldness of the wall against which he lay and the
far tinkle of a mandolin which came to him with annoying distinctness.
The frequent knots where he had tied the strips together were a help,
and whenever he came to one he let his hands rest upon it a moment or
two lest he slide down too rapidly.

He had been descending, it seemed to him, fully an hour, and he must
have come down a mile, when he heard the rattle of a saber. It was so
distinct and so near that it could not be imagination. He looked in the
direction of the sound and saw two dark figures in the street. As he
stared the two figures shaped themselves into two Mexican officers.
Truth, not fancy, told him also that they were not moving. They had seen
him escaping and they would come for him! He pressed his body hard
against the stone wall, and with his hands resting upon one of the knots
clung desperately to the rope. He was hanging in an alley, and the men
were on the street at the mouth of it six or seven yards away. They were
talking and it must be about him!

He saw them create a light in some manner, and his hands almost slipped
from the rope. Then joy flooded back. They were merely lighting
cigarettes, and, with a few more words to each other, they walked on.
Ned slid slowly down, but when he came to the last knot his strength
gave way and he fell. It seemed to him that he was plunging an
immeasurable distance through depths of space. Then he struck and with
the force of the blow consciousness left him.

When he revived he found himself lying upon a rough stone pavement and
it was still dark. He saw above a narrow cleft of somber sky, and
something cold and trailing lay across his face. He shivered with
repulsion, snatched at it to throw it off, and found that it was his
rope. Then he felt of himself cautiously and fearfully, but found that
no bones were broken. Nor was he bruised to any degree and now he knew
that he could not have fallen more than two or three feet. Perhaps he
had struck first upon the little pack which he had fastened upon his
back. It reminded him that he was shoeless and coatless and undoing the
pack he reclothed himself fully.

He was quite sure that he had not lain there more than a quarter of an
hour. Nothing had happened while he was unconscious. It was a dark
little alley in the rear of the prison, and the buildings on the other
side that abutted upon it were windowless. He walked cautiously to the
mouth of the alley, and looked up and down the street. He saw no one,
and, pulling his cap down over his eyes, he started instinctively toward
the north, because it was to the far north that he wished to go. He was
fully aware that he faced great dangers, almost impossibilities.
Practically nothing was in his favor, save that he spoke excellent
Spanish and also Mexican versions of it.

He went for several hundred yards along the rough and narrow street, and
he began to shiver again. Now it was from cold, which often grows
intense at night in the great valley of Mexico. Nor was his wasted frame
fitted to withstand it. He was assailed also by a fierce hunger. He had
carried self-denial to the utmost limit, and nature was crying out
against him in a voice that must be heard.

He resolved to risk all and obtain food. Another hundred yards and he
saw crouched in an angle of the street an old woman who offered
tortillas and frijoles for sale. He went a little nearer, but
apprehension almost overcame him. It might be difficult for him to pass
for a Mexican and she would give the alarm. But he went yet nearer and
stood where he could see her face. It was broad, fat and dark, more
Aztec than Spaniard, and then he approached boldly, his speed increased
by the appetizing aroma arising from some flat cakes that lay over
burning charcoal.

"I will take these, my mother," he said in Mexican, and leaning over he
snatched up half a dozen gloriously hot tortillas and frijoles. A cry of
indignation and anger was checked at the old woman's lips as two small
silver coins slipped from the boy's hands, and tinkled pleasantly
together in her own.

Holding his spoils in his hands Ned walked swiftly up the street. He
glanced back once, and saw that the old Aztec woman had sunk back into
her original position. He had nothing to fear from any alarm by her, and
he looked ahead for some especially dark nook in which he could devour
the precious food. He saw none, but he caught a glimpse beyond of
foliage, and he recalled enough of the city of Mexico to know what it
was. It was the Zocalo or garden of the cathedral, the Holy Metropolitan
Church of Mexico. Above the foliage he could see the dark walls, and
above them he saw the dome, as he had seen it from the window of his
prison. Over the dome itself rose a beautiful lantern, in which a light
was now burning.

Ned entered the garden which contained many trees, and sat down in the
thickest group of them. Then he began to eat. He was as ravenous as any
wolf, but he had been cultivating the power of will, and he ate like a
gentleman, knowing that to do otherwise would not be good for him. But,
tempered by discretion, it was a glorious pursuit. It was almost worth
the long period of fasting and suffering, for common Mexican food,
bought on the street from an old Aztec woman, to taste so well. Strength
flowed back into every vein and muscle. He would not now give way to
fears and tremblings which were of the body rather than the mind. He
stopped when half of the food was gone, put the remainder in his pocket,
and stood up. Fine drops of water struck him in the face. It had begun
to rain. And a raw wind was moaning in the valley.

Despite the warm food and his returning strength Ned felt the desperate
need of shelter. It was growing colder, too. Even as he stood there the
fine rain turned to fine snow. It melted as it fell, but when it struck
him about the neck and face it had an uncommonly penetrating power and
the chill seemed to go into the bone. He must have shelter. He looked at
the dark walls of the cathedral and then at the light in the slender
lantern far up above the dome. What more truly a shelter than a church!
It had been a sanctuary in the dark ages, and he might use it now as
such.

He left the trees and stood for a little while by a stone, one of the
124 which formerly enclosed an atrium. Still seeing nothing and hearing
nothing but the whistle of the wind which drove the cold drops of snow
under his collar he advanced boldly again, sprang over the iron railing,
and came to the walls of the old church, where he stood a moment.

Ned knew that in great Catholic cathedrals, like the one of Mexico,
there were always side doors or little wickets used by priests or other
high officials of the church, and he was hoping to find one that he
could open. He passed half way around the building, feeling cautiously
along the cold stone. Once he saw a watchman with sombrero, heavy cloak
and lantern. He pressed into a niche, and the watchman went on his
automatic way, little thinking that anyone was near.

The boy continued his circuit and presently he found a wooden door,
which he could not force. A little further and he came to a second which
opened to his pressure. It was so small an entrance that he stooped as
he passed in. He shut it carefully behind him, and stood in what was
almost total darkness, until his eyes grew used to the gloom.

Then he saw that he was in a vast interior, Doric in architecture,
severe and simple. It was in the form of a Latin cross, with fluted
columns dividing the aisles from the nave. Above him rose a noble dome.

He could make out nothing more for the present. It was very still, very
imposing, and at another time he would have been awed, but now he had
found sanctuary. The cold and the snow were shut out and a grateful
warmth took their place. He walked down one of the aisles, careful that
his footsteps should make no sound. He saw that there were rows of
chapels, seven on either side of the church. It occurred to him that he
would be safer in one of these rooms and he chose that which seemed to
be used the least.

While on this search he passed the main altar in the center of the
building. He noticed above the stalls a picture of the Virgin. He was a
Protestant, but when he saw it he crossed himself devoutly. Was not her
church giving him shelter and refuge from his enemies? He also passed
the Altar of the Kings, beneath which now lie the heads of great
Mexicans who secured the independence of their country from Spain. He
looked a little at these before he entered the chapel of his choice.

It was a small room, lighted scarcely at all by a narrow window, and it
contained a few straight wooden pews one of which had been turned about
facing the wall. He lay down in his pew, and, even in daylight, he would
have been hidden from anyone a yard away. The hard wood was soft to him.
He put his cap under his head and stretched himself out. Then, without
will, he relaxed completely. Nature could stand no more. His eyes closed
and he floated off into the far and happy region of sleep.




CHAPTER III

SANCTUARY


Ned Fulton's sleep was that of exhaustion, and it lasted long. Although
fine snow yet fell outside, and the raw wind blew it about, a pleasant
warmth pervaded the snug alcove, made by the back of the pew in which he
lay. He had been fortunate indeed to find such a place, because the body
of the church was gloomy and cold. But he did not hear the winds, and no
thought of the snow troubled him, as he slept on hour after hour.

The night passed, the light snow had ceased, no trace of it was left on
the earth, and the brilliant sunshine flooded the ancient capital with
warmth. People went about their usual pursuits. Old men and old women
sold sweets, hot coffee, and tortillas and frijoles, also hot, in the
streets. Little plaster images of the saints and the Virgin were exposed
on trays. Donkeys loaded with vegetables, that had been brought across
the lakes, bumped one another in the narrow ways. Many officers in fine
uniforms and many soldiers in uniforms not so fine could be seen.

Whatever else Mexico might be it was martial. The great Santa Anna whom
men called another Napoleon now ruled, and there was talk of war and
glory. Much of it was vague, but of one thing they were certain. Santa
Anna would soon crush the mutinous Texans in the wild north. Gringos
they were, always pushing where they were not wanted, and, however hard
their fate, they would deserve it. The vein of cruelty which, despite
great virtues, has made Spain a by-word among nations, showed in her
descendants.

But the boy, Edward Fulton, sleeping in the chapel of the great
cathedral, knew nothing of it all. Nature, too long defrauded, was
claiming payment of her debt, and he slept peacefully on, although the
hours passed and noon came.

The church had long been open. Priests came and went in the aisles, and
entered some of the chapels. Worshipers, most of them women, knelt
before the shrines. Service was held at the high altar, and the odor of
incense filled the great nave. Yet the boy was still in sanctuary, and a
kindly angel was watching over him. No one entered the chapel in which
he slept.

It was almost the middle of the afternoon when he awoke. He heard a
faint murmur of voices and a pleasant odor came to his nostrils. He
quickly remembered everything, and, stirring a little on his wooden
couch he found a certain stiffness in the joints. He realized however
that all his strength had come back.

But Ned Fulton understood, although he had escaped from prison and had
found shelter and sanctuary in the cathedral, that he was yet in an
extremely precarious position. The murmur of voices told him that people
were in the church, and he had no doubt that the odor came from burning
incense.

A little light from the narrow window fell upon him. It came through
colored glass, and made red and blue splotches on his hands, at which he
looked curiously. He knew that it was a brilliant day outside, and he
longed for air and exercise, but he dared not move except to stretch his
arms and legs, until the stiffness and soreness disappeared from his
joints. Contact with Spaniard and Mexican had taught him the full need
of caution.

He was very hungry again, and now he was thankful for his restraint of
the night before. He ate the rest of the food in his pockets and waited
patiently.

Ned knew that he had slept a long time, and that it must be late in the
day. He was confirmed in his opinion by the angle at which the light
entered the window, and he decided that he would lie in the pew until
night came again. It was a trying test. School his will as he would he
felt at times that he must come from his covert and walk about the
chapel. The narrow wooden pew became a casket in which he was held, and
now and then he was short of breath. Yet he persisted. He was learning
very young the value of will, and he forced himself every day to use it
and increase its strength.

In such a position and with so much threatening him his faculties became
uncommonly keen. He heard the voices more distinctly, and also the
footsteps of the priests in their felt slippers. They passed the door of
the chapel in which he lay, and once or twice he thought they were going
to enter, but they seemed merely to pause at the door. Then he would
hold his breath until they were gone.

At last and with infinite joy he saw the colored lights fade. The window
itself grew dark, and the murmur in the church ceased. But he did not
come forth from his secure refuge until it was quite dark. He staggered
from stiffness at first, but the circulation was soon restored. Then he
looked from the door of the chapel into the great nave. An old priest in
a brown robe was extinguishing the candles. Ned watched him until he
had put out the last one, and disappeared in the rear of the church.

Then he came forth and standing in the great, gloomy nave tried to
decide what to do next. He had found a night's shelter and no more. He
had escaped from prison, but not from the City of Mexico, and his Texas
was yet a thousand miles away.

Ned found the little door by which he had entered, and passed outside,
hiding again among the trees of the Zocalo. The night was very cold and
he shivered once more, as he stood there waiting. The night was so dark
that the cathedral was almost a formless bulk. But above it, the light
in the slender lantern shone like a friendly star. While he looked the
great bell of Santa Maria de Guadalupe in the western tower began to
chime, and presently the smaller bell of Dona Maria in the eastern tower
joined. It was a mellow song they sung and they sang fresh courage into
the young fugitive's veins. He knew that he could never again see this
cathedral built upon the site of the great Aztec teocalli, destroyed by
the Spaniards more than three hundred years before, without a throb of
gratitude.

Ned's first resolve was to take measures for protection from the cold,
and he placed his silver dollars in his most convenient pocket. Then he
left the trees and moved toward the east, passing in front of the
handsome church Sagrario Metropolitano, and entering a very narrow
street that led among a maze of small buildings. The district was
lighted faintly by a few hanging lanterns, but as Ned had hoped, some of
the shops were yet open. The people who sat here and there in the low
doorways were mostly short of stature and dark and broad of face. The
Indian in them predominated over the Spaniard, and some were pure Aztec.
Ned judged that they would not take any deep interest in the fortunes
of their rulers, Spanish or Mexican, royalist or republican.

He pulled his cap over his eyes and a little to one side, and strolled
on, humming an old Mexican air. His walk was the swagger of a young
Mexican gallant, and in the dimness they would not notice his Northern
fairness. Several pairs of eyes observed him, but not with disapproval.
They considered him a trim Mexican lad. Some of the men in the doorways
took up the air that he was whistling and continued it.

He saw soon the place for which he was looking, a tiny shop in which an
old Indian sold serapes. He stopped in the doorway, which he filled,
took down one of the best and heaviest and held out the number of
dollars which he considered an adequate price. The Indian shook his head
and asked for nearly twice as much. Ned knew how long they bargained and
chaffered in Mexico and what a delight they took in it. After an hour's
talk he could secure the serape, at the price he offered, but he dared
not linger in one place. Already the old Indian was looking at him
inquiringly. Doubtless he had seen that this was no Mexican, but Ned
judged shrewdly that he would not let the fact interfere with a
promising bargain.

The boy acted promptly. He added two more silver dollars to the amount
that he had proffered, put the whole in the old Indian's palm, took down
the serape, folded it over his arm, and with a "gracias, señor," backed
swiftly out of the shop. The old Indian was too much astonished to move
for at least a half minute. Then tightly clutching the silver in his
hand he ran into the street. But the tall young señor, with the serape
already wrapped around his shoulders, was disappearing in the darkness.
The Indian opened his palm and looked at the silver. A smile passed over
his face. After all, it was two good Spanish dollars more than he had
expected, and he returned contentedly to his shop. If such generous
young gentlemen came along every night his fortune would soon be made.

Ned soon left the shop far behind. It was a fine serape, very large,
thick and warm, and he draped himself in it in true Mexican fashion. It
kept him warm, and, wrapped in its folds, he looked much more like a
genuine Mexican. He had but little money left, but among the more
primitive people beyond the capital one might work his way. If suspected
he could claim to be English, and Mexico was not at war with England.

He bought a sombrero at another shop with almost the last of his money,
and then started toward La Viga, the canal that leads from the lower
part of the city toward the fresh water lakes, Chalco and Xochimilco. He
hoped to find at the canal one of the bergantins, or flat-bottomed
boats, in which vegetables, fruit and flowers were brought to the city
for sale. They were good-natured people, those of the bergantins, and
they would not scorn the offer of a stout lad to help with sail and oar.

Hidden in his serape and sombrero, and, secure in his knowledge of
Spanish and Mexican, he now advanced boldly through the more populous
and better lighted parts of the city. He even lingered a little while in
front of a café, where men were playing guitar and mandolin, and girls
were dancing with castanets. The sight of light and life pleased the boy
who had been so long in prison. These people were diverting themselves
and they smiled and laughed. They seemed to have kindly feelings for
everybody, but he remembered that cruel Spanish strain, often dormant,
but always there, and he hastened on.

Three officers, their swords swinging at their thighs, came down the
narrow street abreast. At another time Ned would not have given way, and
even now it hurt him to do so, but prudence made him step from the
sidewalk. One of them laughed and applied an insulting epithet to the
"peon," but Ned bore it and continued, his sombrero pulled well down
over his eyes.

His course now led him by the great palace of Yturbide, where he saw
many windows blazing with light. Several officers were entering and
chief among them he recognized General Martin Perfecto de Cos, the
brother-in-law of Santa Anna, whom Ned believed to be a treacherous and
cruel man. He hastened away from such an unhealthy proximity, and came
to La Viga.

He saw a rude wharf along the canal and several boats, all with the
sails furled, except two. These two might be returning to the fresh
water lakes, and it was possible that he could secure passage. The
people of the bergantins were always humble peons and they cared little
for the intrigues of the capital.

It was now about eleven o'clock and the night had lightened somewhat, a
fair moon showing. Ned could see distinctly the boats or bergantins as
the Mexicans called them. They were large, flat of bottom, shallow of
draft, and were propelled with both sail and oar. He was repulsed at the
first, where a surly Mexican of middle age told him with a curse that he
wanted no help, but at the next which had as a crew a man, a woman,
evidently his wife, and two half-grown boys, he was more fortunate.
Could he use an oar? He could. Then he might come, because there was
little promise of wind, and the sails would be of no use. A strong arm
would help, as it was sixteen miles down La Viga to the Lake of
Xochimilco, on the shores of which they lived. The boys were tired and
sleepy, and he would serve very well in their stead.

Ned took his place in the boat, truly thankful that in this crisis of
his life he knew how to row. He saw that his hosts, or rather those for
whom he worked, were an ordinary peon family, at least half Indian,
sluggish of mind and kind of heart. They had brought vegetables and
flowers to the city, and now they were thriftily returning in the night
to their home on the lake that Benito Igarritos and his sons might not
miss the next day from their work.

Igarritos and Ned took the oars. The two boys stretched themselves on
the bottom of the boat and were asleep in an instant. Juana, the wife,
spread a serape over them, and then sat down in Turkish fashion in the
center of the bergantin, a great red and yellow reboso about her head
and shoulders. Sometimes she looked at her husband, and sometimes at the
strange boy. He had spoken to them in good Mexican, he dressed like a
Mexican and he walked like a Mexican, but she had not been deceived. She
knew that the Mexican part of him ended with the serape and sombrero.
She wondered why he had come, and why he was anxious to go to the Lake
of Xochimilco. But she reflected with the patience and resignation of an
oppressed race that it was no business of hers. He was a good youth. He
had spoken to her with compliments as one speaks to a lady of high
degree, and he bent manfully on the oar. He was welcome. But he must
have a name and she would know it.

"What do you call yourself?" she asked.

"William," he replied. "I come from a far country, England, and it is my
pleasure to travel in new lands and see new peoples."

"Weel-le-am," she said gravely, "you are far from your friends."

Ned bent his head in assent. Her simple words made him feel that he was
indeed far from his own land and surrounded by a thousand perils. The
woman did not speak again and they moved on with an even stroke down the
canal which had an uniform width of about thirty feet. They were still
passing houses of stone and others of adobe, but before they had gone a
mile they were halted by a sharp command from the shore. An officer and
three soldiers, one of whom held a lantern, stood on the bank.

Ned had expected that they would be stopped. These were revolutionary
times and people could not go in or out of the city unnoticed.
Particularly was La Viga guarded. He knew that his fate now rested with
Benito Igarritos and his wife Juana, but he trusted them. The officer
was peremptory, but the bergantin was most innocent in appearance.
Merely a humble vegetable boat returning down La Viga after a successful
day in the city. "Your family?" Ned heard the officer say to Benito, as
he flashed the lantern in turn upon every one.

Taciturn, like most men of the oppressed races, Benito nodded, while his
wife sat silent in her great red and yellow reboso. Ned leaned
carelessly upon the oar, but his face was well hid by the sombrero, and
his heart was throbbing. When the light of the lantern passed over him
he felt as if he were seared by a flame, but the officer had no
suspicion, and with a gruff "Pass on" he withdrew from the bank with his
men. Benito nodded to Ned and they pulled again into the center of La
Viga. Neither spoke. Nor did the woman.

Ned bent on the oar with renewed strength. He felt that the greatest of
his dangers was now passed, and the relief of the spirit brought fresh
strength. The night lightened yet more. He saw on the low banks of the
canal green shrubs and many plants with spikes and thorns. It seemed to
him characteristic of Mexico that nearly everything should have its
spikes and thorns. Through the gray night showed the background of the
distant mountains.

They overtook and passed two other bergantins returning from the city
and they met a third on its way thither with vegetables for the morning
market. Benito knew the owners and exchanged a brief word with everyone
as he passed. Ned pulled silently at his oar.

When it was far past midnight Ned felt a cool breeze rising. Benito
began to unfurl the sail.

"You have pulled well, young señor," he said to Ned, "but the oar is
needed no more. Now the wind will work for us. You will sleep and Carlos
will help me."

He awoke the elder of the two boys. Ned was so tired that his arms
ached, and he was glad to rest. He wrapped his heavy serape about
himself, lay down on the bottom of the boat, pillowed his head on his
arm, and went to sleep.

When he awoke, it was day and they were floating on a broad sheet of
shallow water, which he knew instinctively was Xochimilco. The wind was
still blowing, and one of the boys steered the bergantin. Benito, Juana
and the other boy sat up, with their faces turned toward the rosy
morning light, as if they were sun-worshipers. Ned also felt the
inspiration. The world was purer and clearer here than in the city. In
the early morning the grayish, lonely tint which is the prevailing note
of Mexico, did not show. The vegetation was green, or it was tinted with
the glow of the sun. Near the lower shores he saw the Chiampas or
floating gardens.

Benito turned the bergantin into a cove, and they went ashore. His
house, flat roofed and built of adobe, was near, standing in a field,
filled with spiky and thorny plants. They gave Ned a breakfast, the
ordinary peasant fare of the country, but in abundance, and then the
woman, who seemed to be in a sense the spokesman of the family, said
very gravely:

"You are a good boy, Weel-le-am, and you rowed well. What more do you
wish of us?"

Benito also bent his dark eyes upon him in serious inquiry. Ned was not
prepared for any reply. He did not know just what to do and on impulse
he answered:

"I would stay with you a while and work. You will not find me lazy."

He waved his hand toward the spiky and thorny field. Benito consulted
briefly with his wife and they agreed. For three or four days Ned toiled
in the hot field with Benito and the boys and at night he slept on the
floor of earth. The work was hard and it made his body sore. The food
was of the roughest, but these things were trifles compared with the
gift of freedom which he had received. How glorious it was to breathe
the fresh air and to have only the sky for a roof and the horizon for
walls!

Benito and the older boy again took the bergantin loaded with vegetables
up La Viga to the city. They did not suggest that Ned go with them. He
remained working in the field, and trying to think of some way in which
he could obtain money for a journey. The wind was good, the bergantin
traveled fast, and Benito and his boy returned speedily. Benito greeted
Ned with a grave salute, but said nothing until an hour later, when they
sat by a fire outside the hut, eating the tortillas and frijoles which
Juana had cooked for them.

"What is the news in the capital?" asked Ned.

Benito pondered his reply.

"The President, the protector of us all, the great General Santa Anna,
grows more angry at the Texans, the wild Americans who have come into
the wilderness of the far North," he replied. "They talk of an army
going soon against them, and they talk, too, of a daring escape."

He paused and contemplatively lit a cigarrito.

"What was the escape?" asked Ned, the pulse in his wrist beginning to
beat hard.

"One of the Texans, whom the great Santa Anna holds, but a boy they say
he was, though fierce, slipped between the bars of his window and is
gone. They wish to get him back; they are anxious to take him again for
reasons that are too much for Benito."

"Do you think they will find him?"

"How do I know? But they say he is yet in the capital, and there is a
reward of one hundred good Spanish dollars for the one who will bring
him in, or who will tell where he is to be found."

Benito quietly puffed at his cigarrito and Juana, the cooking being
over, threw ashes on the coals.

"If he is still hiding within reach of Santa Anna's arm," said Ned,
"somebody is sure to betray him for the reward."

"I do not know," said Benito, tossing away the stub of his cigarrito.
Then he rose and began work in the field.

Ned went out with the elder boy, Carlos, and caught fish. They did not
return until twilight, and the others were already waiting placidly
while Juana prepared their food. None of them could read; they had
little; their life was of the most primitive, but Ned noticed that they
never spoke cross words to one another. They seemed to him to be
entirely content.

After supper they sat on the ground in front of the adobe hut. The
evening was clear and already many stars were coming into a blue sky.
The surface of the lake was silver, rippling lightly. Benito smoked
luxuriously.

"I saw this afternoon a friend of mine, Miguel Lampridi," he said after
a while. "He had just come down La Viga from the city."

"What news did he bring?" asked Edward.

"They are still searching everywhere for the young Texan who went
through the window--Eduardo Fulton is his name. Truly General Santa Anna
must have his reasons. The reward has been doubled."

"Poor lad," spoke Juana, who spoke seldom. "It may be that the young
Texan is not as bad as they say. But it is much money that they offer.
Someone will find him."

"It may be," said Benito. Then they sat a long time in silence. Juana
was the first to go into the house and to bed. After a while the two
boys followed. Another half hour passed, and Ned rose.

"I go, Benito," he said. "You and your wife have been good to me, and I
cannot bring misfortune upon you. Why is it that you did not betray me?
The reward is large. You would have been a rich man here."

Benito laughed low.

"Yes, it would have been much money," he replied, "but what use have I
for it? I have the wife I wish, and my sons are good sons. We do not go
hungry and we sleep well. So it will be all the days of our life. Two
hundred silver dollars would bring two hundred evil spirits among us.
Thy face, young Texan, is a good face. I think so and my wife, Juana,
who knows, says so. Yet it is best that you go. Others will soon learn,
and it is hard to live between close stone walls, when the free world is
so beautiful. I will call Juana, and she, too, will tell you farewell.
We would not drive you away, but since you choose to go, you shall not
leave without a kind word, which may go with you as a blessing on your
way."

He called at the door of the adobe hut. Juana came forth. She was stout,
and she had never been beautiful, but her face seemed very pleasant to
Ned, as she asked the Holy Virgin to watch over him in his wanderings.

"I have five silver dollars," said Benito. "They are yours. They will
make the way shorter."

But Ned refused absolutely to accept them. He would not take the store
of people who had been so kind to him. Instead he offered the single
dollar that he had left for a heavy knife like a machete. Benito brought
it to him and reluctantly took the dollar.

"Do not try the northern way, Texan," he said, "it is too far. Go over
the mountains to Vera Cruz, where you will find passage on a ship."

It seemed good advice to Ned, and, although the change of plan was
abrupt, he promised to take it. Juana gave him a bag of food which he
fastened to his belt under his serape, and at midnight, with the
blessing of the Holy Virgin invoked for him again, he started. Fifty
yards away he turned and saw the man and woman standing before their
door and gazing at him. He waved his hand and they returned the salute.
He walked on again a little mist before his eyes. They had been very
kind to him, these poor people of another race.

He walked along the shore of the lake for a long time, and then bore in
toward the east, intending to go parallel with the great road to Vera
Cruz. His step was brisk and his heart high. He felt more courage and
hope than at any other time since he had dropped from the prison. He had
food for several days, and the possession of the heavy knife was a great
comfort. He could slash with it, as with a hatchet.

He walked steadily for hours. The road was rough, but he was young and
strong. Once he crossed the pedregal, a region where an old lava flow
had cooled, and which presented to his feet numerous sharp edges like
those of a knife. He had good shoes with heavy soles and he knew their
value. On the long march before him they were worth as much as bread and
weapons, and he picked his way as carefully as a walker on a tight rope.
He was glad when he had crossed the dangerous pedregal and entered a
cypress forest, clustering on a low hill. Grass grew here also, and he
rested a while, wrapped in his serape against the coldness of the night.

He saw behind and now below him the city, the towers of the churches
outlined against the sky. It was from some such place as this that
Cortez and his men, embarked upon the world's most marvelous adventure,
had looked down for the first time upon the ancient city of
Tenochtitlan. But it did not beckon to Ned. It seemed to him that a
mighty menace to his beloved Texas emanated from it. And he must warn
the Texans.

He sprang to his feet and resumed his journey. At the eastern edge of
the hill he came upon a beautiful little spring, leaping from the rock.
He drank from it and went on. Lower down he saw some adobe huts among
the cypresses and cactus. No doubt their occupants were sound asleep,
but for safety's sake he curved away from them. Dogs barked, and when
they barked again the sound showed they were coming nearer. He ran,
rather from caution than fear, because if the dogs attacked he wished to
be so far away from the huts that their owners would not be awakened.

Now he gave thanks that he had the machete. He thrust his hands under
the serape and clasped its strong handle. It was a truly formidable
weapon. He came to another little hill, also clothed in cypress, and
began to ascend it with decreased speed. The baying of the dogs was
growing much louder. They were coming fast. Near the summit he saw a
heap of rock, probably an Aztec tumulus, six or seven feet high. Ned
smiled with satisfaction. Pressed by danger his mind was quick. He was
where he would make his defense, and he did not think it would need to
be a long one.

He settled himself well upon the top of the tumulus and drew his
machete. The dogs, six in number, coursed among the cypresses, and the
leader, foam upon his mouth, leaped straight at Ned. The boy
involuntarily drew up his feet a little, but he was not shaken from the
crouching position that was best suited to a blow. As the hound was in
mid-air he swung the machete with all his might and struck straight at
the ugly head. The heavy blade crashed through the skull and the dog
fell dead without a sound. Another which leaped also, but not so far,
received a deep cut across the shoulder. It fell back and retreated with
the others among the cypresses, where the unwounded dogs watched with
red eyes the formidable figure on the rocks.

But Ned did not remain on the tumulus more than a few minutes longer.
When he sprang down the dogs growled, but he shook the machete until it
glittered in the moonlight. With howls of terror they fled, while he
resumed his journey in the other direction.

Near morning he came into country which seemed to him very wild. The
soil was hard and dry, but there was a dense growth of giant cactus,
with patches here and there of thorny bushes. Guarding well against the
spikes and thorns he crept into one of the thickets and lay down. He
must rest and sleep and already the touch of rose in the east was
heralding the dawn. Sleep by day and flight by night. He was satisfied
with himself. He had really succeeded better so far than he had hoped,
and, guarded by the spikes and thorns, slumber took him before dawn had
spread from east to west.




CHAPTER IV

THE PALM


Ned awoke about noon. The morning had been cold, but having been wrapped
very thoroughly in the great serape, he had remained snug and warm all
through his long sleep. He rose very cautiously, lest the spikes and
thorns should get him, and then went to a comparatively open place among
the giant cactus stems whence he could see over the hills and valleys.
He saw in the valley nearest him the flat roofs of a small village.
Columns of smoke rose from two or three of the adobe houses, and he
heard the faint, mellow voices of men singing in a field. Women by the
side of a small but swift stream were pounding and washing clothes after
the primitive fashion.

Looking eastward he saw hills and a small mountain, but all the country
in that direction seemed to be extremely arid and repellent. The bare
basalt of volcanic origin showed everywhere, and, even at the distance,
he could see many deep quarries in the stone, where races older,
doubtless, than Aztecs and Toltecs, had obtained material for building.
It was always Ned's feeling when in Mexico that he was in an old, old
land, not ancient like England or France, but ancient as Egypt and
Babylon are ancient.

He had calculated his course very carefully, and he knew that it would
lead through this desert, volcanic region, but on the whole he was not
sorry. Mexicans would be scarce in such a place. He remained a lad of
stout heart, confident that he would succeed.

He ate sparingly and reckoned that with self-denial he had food enough
to last three days. He might obtain more on the road by some happy
chance or other. Then becoming impatient he started again, keeping well
among cypress and cactus, and laying his course toward the small
mountain that he saw ahead. He pressed forward the remainder of the
afternoon, coming once or twice near to the great road that led to Vera
Cruz. On one occasion he saw a small body of soldiers, deep in dust,
marching toward the port. All except the officers were peons and they
did not seem to Ned to show much martial ardor. But the officers on
horseback sternly bade them hasten. Ned, as usual, had much sympathy for
the poor peasants, but none for the officers who drove them on.

About sunset he came to a little river, the Teotihuacan he learned
afterward, and he still saw before him the low mountain, the name of
which was Cerro Gordo. But his attention was drawn from the mountain by
two elevations rising almost at the bank of the river. They were
pyramidal in shape and truncated, and the larger, which Ned surmised to
be anywhere from 500 to 1000 feet square, seemed to rise to a height of
two or three hundred feet. The other was about two-thirds the size of
the larger, both in area and height.

Although there was much vegetation clinging about them Ned knew that
these were pyramids erected by the hand of man. The feeling that this
was a land old like Egypt came back to him most powerfully in the
presence of these ancient monuments, which were in fact the Pyramid of
the Sun and the Pyramid of the Moon. There they stood, desolate and of
untold age. The setting sun poured an intense red light upon them,
until they stood out vivid and enlarged.

So far as Ned knew, no other human being was anywhere near. The
loneliness in the presence of those tremendous ruins was overpowering.
He longed for human companionship. A peon, despite the danger otherwise,
would have been welcome. The whole land took on fantastic aspects. It
was not normal and healthy like the regions from which he came north of
the Rio Grande. Every nerve quivered.

Then he did the bravest thing that one could do in such a position,
forcing his will to win a victory over weirdness and superstition. He
crossed the shallow river and advanced boldly toward the Pyramid of the
Sun. His reason told him that there were no such things as ghosts, but
it told him also that Mexican peons were likely to believe in them.
Hence it was probable that he would be safer about the Pyramid than far
from it. The country bade fair to become too rough for night traveling
and he would stop there a while, refreshing his strength.

Although the sun was setting, the color of the skies promised a bright
night, and Ned approached boldly. As usual his superstitious fears
became weaker as he approached the objects that had called them into
existence. But before he reached the pyramids he found that he was among
many ruins. They stood all about him, stone fragments of ancient walls,
black basalt or lava, and, unless the twilight deceived him, there were
also traces of ancient streets. He saw, too, south of the larger
pyramids a great earthwork or citadel thirty or forty feet high
enclosing a square in which stood a small pyramid. The walls of the
earthwork were enormously thick, three hundred feet Ned reckoned, and
upon it at regular intervals stood other small pyramids fourteen in
number.

Scattered all about, alone or in groups, were tumuli, and leading away
from the largest group of tumuli Ned saw a street or causeway, which,
passing by the Pyramid of the Sun, ended in front of the Pyramid of the
Moon, where it widened out into a great circle, with a tumulus standing
in the center.

Despite all the courage that he had shown Ned felt a superstitious
thrill as he looked at these ancient and solemn ruins. He and they were
absolutely alone. Antiquity looked down upon him. The sun was gone now
and the moon was coming out, touching pyramids and tumuli, earthworks
and causeway with ghostly silver, deepening the effect of loneliness and
far-off time.

While Ned was looking at these majestic remains he heard the sound of
voices, and then the rattle of weapons. He saw through the twilight the
glitter of uniforms and of swords and sabers. A company of Mexican
soldiers, at least a hundred in number, had come into the ancient city
and, no doubt, intended to camp there. Being so absorbed in the strange
ruins he had not noticed them sooner.

As the men were already scattering in search of firewood or other needs
of the camp Ned saw that he was in great danger. He hid behind a
tumulus, half covered by the vegetation that had grown from its
crevices. He was glad that his serape was of a modest brown, instead of
the bright colors that most of the Mexicans loved. A soldier passed
within ten feet of him, but in the twilight did not notice him. It was
enough to make one quiver. Another passed a little later, and he, too,
failed to see the fugitive. But a third, if he came, would probably
see, and leaving the tumulus Ned ran to another where he hid again for
a few minutes.

It was the boy's object to make off through the neighboring forest after
passing from tumulus to tumulus, but he found soon that another body of
soldiers was camping upon the far side of the ruined city. He might or
might not run the gauntlet in the darkness. The probabilities were that
he would not, and hiding behind a tumulus almost midway between the two
forces he took thought of his next step.

The Pyramid of the Moon rose almost directly before him, its truncated
mass spotted with foliage. Ned could see that its top was flat and
instantly he took a bold resolution. He made his way to the base of the
pyramid and began to climb slowly and with great care, always keeping
hidden in the vegetation. He was certain that no Mexican would follow
where he was going. They were on other business, and their incurious
minds bothered little about a city that was dead and gone for them.

Up he went steadily over uneven terraces, and from below he heard the
chatter of the soldiers. A third fire had been lighted much nearer the
pyramid, and pausing a moment he looked down. Twenty or thirty soldiers
were scattered about this fire. Their muskets were stacked and they were
taking their ease. Discipline was relaxed. One man was strumming a
mandolin already, and two or three began to sing. But Ned saw sentinels
walking among the tumuli and along the Calle de los Muertos which led
from the Citadel to the southern front of the Pyramid of the Moon. He
was very glad now that he had sought this lofty refuge, and he renewed
his climb.

As he drew himself upon another terrace he saw before him a dark opening
into the very mass of the pyramid, which was built either of brick or
of stone, he could not tell which. He thought once of creeping in and of
hiding there, but after taking a couple of steps into the dark he drew
back. He was afraid of plunging into some well and he continued the
ascent. He was now about sixty or seventy feet up, but he was not yet
half way to the top of the pyramid.

He was so slow and cautious that it took more than a half hour to reach
the crest, where he found himself upon a platform about twenty feet
square. It was an irregular surface with much vegetation growing from
the crevices, and here Ned felt quite safe. Near him and sixty feet
above him rose the crest of the Pyramid of the Sun. Beyond were ranges
of mountains silvery in the moonlight. He walked to the edge of the
pyramid and looked down. Four or five fires were burning now, and the
single mandolin had grown to four. Several guitars were being plucked
vigorously also, and the sound of the instruments joined with that of
the singing voices was very musical and pleasant. These Mexicans seemed
to be full of good nature, and so they were, with fire, food and music
in plenty, but now that he had been their prisoner Ned never forgot how
that dormant and Spanish strain of cruelty in their natures could flame
high under the influence of passion. The dungeons of Spanish Mexico and
of the new Mexico hid many dark stories, and he believed that he had
read what lay behind the smiling mask of Santa Anna's face. He would
suffer everything to keep out of Mexican hands.

He crept away from the edge of the pyramid, and chose a place near its
center for his lofty camp. There was much vegetation growing out of the
ancient masonry, and he had a fear of scorpions and of more dangerous
reptiles, perhaps, but he thrashed up the grass and weeds well with his
machete. Then he sat down and ate his supper. Fortunately he had drunk
copiously at a brook before reaching the ruined city and he did not
suffer from thirst.

Then, relying upon the isolation of his perch for safety, he wrapped
himself in the invaluable serape and lay down. The night was cold as
usual, and a sharp wind blew down from northern peaks and ranges, but
Ned, protected by vegetation and the heavy serape, had an extraordinary
feeling of warmth and snugness as he lay on the old pyramid. Held so
long within close walls the wild freedom and the fresh air that came
across seas and continents were very grateful to him. Even the presence
of an enemy, so near, and yet, as it seemed, so little dangerous, added
a certain piquancy to his position. The pleasant tinkle of the mandolins
was wafted upward to him, and it was wonderfully soothing, telling of
peace and rest. He inhaled the aromatic odors of strange and flowering
southern plants, and his senses were steeped in a sort of luxurious
calm.

He fell asleep to the music of the mandolin, and when he awoke such a
bright sun was shining in his eyes that he was glad to close and open
them again several times before they would tolerate the brilliant
Mexican sky that bent above him. He lay still about five minutes,
listening, and then, to his disappointment, he heard sounds below. He
judged by the position of the sun that it must be at least 10 o'clock in
the morning, and the Mexicans should be gone. Yet they were undoubtedly
still there. He crept to the edge of the pyramid and looked over. There
was the Mexican force, scattered about the ruined city, but camped in
greatest numbers along the Calle de los Muertos. Their numbers had been
increased by two hundred or three hundred, and, as Ned saw no signs of
breaking camp, he judged that this was a rendezvous, and that there were
more troops yet to come.

He saw at once that his problem was increased greatly. He could not
dream of leaving the summit of the pyramid before the next night came.
Food he had in plenty but no water, and already as the hot sun's rays
approached the vertical he felt a great thirst. Imagination and the
knowledge that he could not allay it for the present at least, increased
the burning sensation in his throat and the dryness of his lips. He
caught a view of the current of the Teotihuacan, the little river by the
side of which the pyramids stand, and the sight increased his torments.
He had never seen before such fresh and pure water. It sparkled and
raced in the sun before him and it looked divine. And yet it was as far
out of his reach as if it were all the way across Mexico.

Ned went back to the place where he had slept and sat down. The sight of
the river had tortured him, and he felt better when it was shut from
view. Now he resolved to see what could be accomplished by will. He
undertook to forget the water, and at times he succeeded, but, despite
his greatest efforts, the Teotihuacan would come back now and then with
the most astonishing vividness. Although he was lying on the serape with
bushes and shrubs all around, there was the river visible to the eye of
imagination, brighter, fresher and more sparkling than ever. He could
not control his fancy, but will ruled the body and he did not stir from
his place for hours. The sun beat fiercely upon him and the thin bushes
and shrubs afforded little protection. Toward the northern edge of the
pyramid a small palm was growing out of a large crevice in the masonry,
and it might have given some shade, but it was in such an exposed
position that Ned did not dare to use it for fear of discovery.

How he hated that sun! It seemed to be drying him up, through and
through, causing the very blood in his veins to evaporate. Why should
such hot days follow such cold nights? When his tongue touched the roof
of his mouth it felt rough and hot like a coal. Perhaps the Mexicans had
gone away. It seemed to him that he had not heard any sounds from them
for some time. He went to the edge of the pyramid and looked over. No,
the Mexicans were yet there, and the sight of them filled him with a
fierce anger. They were enjoying themselves. Tents were scattered about
and shelters of boughs had been erected. Many soldiers were taking their
siestas. Nobody was working and there was not the slightest sign that
they intended to depart that day. Ned's hot tongue clove to the roof of
his hot mouth, but he obstinately refused to look at the river. He did
not think that he could stand another sight of it.

He went back to his little lair among the shrubs and prayed for night,
blessed night with its cooling touch. He had a horrible apprehension
which amounted to conviction that the troops would stay there for
several days, awaiting some maneuver or perhaps making it a rallying
point, and that in his hiding place on the pyramid he was in as bad case
as a sailor cast on a desert island without water. Nothing seemed left
for him but to steal down and try to escape in darkness. Thus night
would be doubly welcome and he prayed for it again and with renewed
fervor.

Some hours are ten times as long as others, but the longest of all come
to an end at last. The sun began to droop in the west. The vertical
glare was gone, yet the masonry where it was bare was yet hot to the
touch. It, too, cooled soon. The sun dropped wholly down and darkness
came over all the earth. Then the fever in Ned's throat died down
somewhat, and the blood began to flow again in his veins. It seemed as
if a dew touched his face, delicious, soothing like drops of rain in the
burning desert.

He rose and stretched his stiffened limbs. Overhead spread the dark,
cool sky, and the bright stars were coming out, one by one. After the
first few moments of relief he heard the cry for water again. Despite
the night and the coming chill he knew that it would make itself heard
often and often, and he began to study the possibilities of a descent.
But he saw the fires spread out again on all sides of the Pyramid of the
Sun and the Pyramid of the Moon and flame thickly along the Calle de los
Muertos. It did not seem that he could pass even on the blackest night.

He moved over toward the northern edge of the pyramid, and stood under
the palm which he had noticed in the day. One of its broad green leaves,
swayed by the wind, touched him softly on the face. He looked up. It was
a friendly palm. Its very touch was kindly. He stroked the blades and
then he examined the stem or body minutely. He was a studious boy who
had read much. He had heard of the water palm of the Hawaiian and other
South Sea Islands. Might not the water palm be found in Mexico also? In
any event, he had never heard of a palm that was poisonous. They were
always givers of life.

He raised the machete and slashed the stem of the palm at a point about
five feet from the ground. The wound gaped open and a stream of water
gushed forth. Ned applied his mouth at once and drank long and deeply.
It was not poison, nor was it any bitter juice. This was the genuine
water palm, yielding up the living fluid of its arteries for him. He
drank as long as the gash gave forth water and then sat down under the
blades of the palm, content and thankful, realizing that there was
always hope in the very heart of despair.

Ned sat a long time, feeling the new life rushing into his veins. He ate
from the food of which he had a plentiful supply and once more gave
thanks to Benito and Juana. Then he stood up and the broad leaves of the
palm waving gently in the wind touched his face again. He reached up his
hand and stroked them. The palm was to him almost a thing of life. He
went to the edge of the pyramid and strove for a sight of the
Teotihuacan. He caught at last a flash of its waters in the moonlight
and he shook his fist in defiance. "I can do without you now," was his
thought. "The sight of you does not torture me."

He returned to his usual place of sleep. As long as he had a water
supply it was foolish of him to attempt an escape through the Mexican
lines. He was familiar now with every square inch of the twenty feet
square of the crowning platform of the pyramid. It seemed that he had
been there for weeks and he began to have the feeling that it was home.
Once more, hunger and thirst satisfied, he sought sleep and slept with
the deep peace of youth.

Ned awoke from his second night on the pyramid before dawn was complete.
There was silvery light in the east over the desolate ranges, but the
west was yet a dark blur. He looked down and saw that nearly all the
soldiers were still asleep, while those who did not sleep were as
motionless as if they were. In the half light the lost city, the tumuli
and the ruins of the old buildings took on strange and fantastic shapes.
The feeling that he was among the dead, the dead for many centuries,
returned to Ned with overpowering effect. He thought of Aztec and Toltec
and people back of all these who had built this city. The Mexicans below
were intruders like himself.

He shook himself as if by physical effort he could get rid of the
feeling and then went to the water palm in which he cut another gash.
Again the fountain gushed forth and he drank. But the palm was a small
one. There was too little soil among the crevices of the ancient masonry
to support a larger growth, and he saw that it could not satisfy his
thirst more than a day or two. But anything might happen in that time,
and his courage suffered no decrease.

He retreated toward the center of the platform as the day was now coming
fast after the southern fashion. The whole circle of the heavens seemed
to burst into a blaze of light, and, in a few hours, the sun was hotter
than it had been before. Many sounds now came from the camp below, but
Ned, although he often looked eagerly, saw no signs of coming departure.
Shortly after noon there was a great blare of trumpets, and a detachment
of lancers rode up. They were large men, mounted finely, and the heads
of their long lances glittered as they brandished them in the sun.

Ned's attention was drawn to the leader of this new detachment, an
officer in most brilliant uniform, and he started. He knew him at once.
It was the brother-in-law of Santa Anna, General Martin Perfecto de Cos,
a man in whom that old, cruel strain was very strong, and whom Ned
believed to be charged with the crushing of the Texans. Then he was
right in his surmise that Mexican forces for the campaign were
gathering here on the banks of the Teotihuacan!

More troops came in the afternoon, and the boy no longer had the
slightest doubt. The camp spread out further and further, and assumed
military form. Not so many men were lounging about and the tinkling of
the guitars ceased. Ned could see General de Cos plainly, a heavy man of
dark face, autocratic and domineering in manner.

Night came and the boy went once more to the palm. When he struck with
his machete the water came forth, but in a much weaker stream. In
reality he was yet thirsty after he drank the full flow, but he would
not cut into the stem again. He knew that he must practice the severest
economy with his water supply.

The third night came and as soon as he was safe from observation Ned
slashed the palm once more. The day had been very hot and his thirst was
great. The water come forth but with only half the vigor of the morning,
which itself had shown a decrease. The poor palm, too, trembled and
shook when he cut into it with the machete and the blades drooped. Ned
drank what it supplied and then turned away regretfully. It was a kindly
palm, a gift to man, and yet he must slay it to save his own life.

He lay down again, but he did not sleep as well as usual. His nerves
were upset by the long delay, and the decline of the palm, and he was
not refreshed when he awoke in the morning. His head felt hot and his
limbs were heavy.

As it was not yet bright daylight he went to the palm and cut into it.
The flow of water was only a few mouthfuls. Cautious and doubly
economical now he pursed his lips that not a single drop might escape.
Then, after eating a little food he lay down, protected as much as
possible by the scanty bushes, and also sheltering himself at times from
the sun with the serape which he drew over his head. He felt
instinctively and with the power of conviction that the Mexicans would
not depart. The coming of Cos had taken the hope from him. Cos! He hated
the short, brusque name.

It was another day of dazzling brightness and intense heat. Certainly
this was a vertical sun. It shot rays like burning arrows straight down.
The blood in his veins seemed to dry up again. His head grew hotter.
Black specks in myriads danced before his eyes. He looked longingly at
his palm. When he first saw it, it stood up, vital and strong. Now it
seemed to droop and waver like himself. But it would have enough life to
fill its veins and arteries through the day and at night he would have
another good drink.

He scarcely stirred throughout the day but spent most of the time
looking at the palm. He paid no attention to the sounds below, sure that
the Mexicans would not go away. He fell at times into a sort of fevered
stupor, and he aroused himself from the last one to find that night had
come. He took his machete, went to the tree, and cut quickly, because
his thirst was very great.

The gash opened, but not a drop came forth.




CHAPTER V

IN THE PYRAMID


Ned stared, half in amazement, half in despair. Yet he had known all the
while that this would happen. The palm had emptied every drop from its
veins and arteries for him, giving life for life. He had cut so deeply
and so often that it would wither now and die. He turned away in
sadness, and suddenly a bitter, burning thirst assailed him. It seemed
to have leaped into new life with the knowledge that there was nothing
now to assuage it.

The boy sat down on a small projection of brickwork, and considered his
case. He had been more than twelve hours without water under a fierce
sun. His thirst would not increase so fast at night, but it would
increase, nevertheless, and the Mexican force might linger below a week.
Certainly its camp was of such a character that it would remain at least
two or three days, and any risk was preferable to a death of thirst. He
could wait no longer.

Now chance which had been so cruel flung a straw his way. The night was
darker than usual. The moon and stars did not come out, and troops of
clouds stalked up from the southwest. Ned knew that it was a land of
little rain, and for a few moments he had a wild hope that in some
manner he might catch enough water for his use on the crest of the
pyramid. But reason soon drove the hope away. There was no depression
which would hold water, and he resolved instead to make the descent
under cover of the darkness.

When he had come to this resolution the thirst was not so fierce.
Indecision being over, both his physical and mental courage rose. He ate
and had left enough food to last for two days, which he fastened
securely in a pack to his body. Then, machete in hand, he looked over
the edge of the pyramid. There was some noise in the camp, but most of
the soldiers seemed to be at rest. Lights flickered here and there, and
the ruined city, showing only in fragments through the darkness, looked
more ghostly and mournful than ever.

Ned waited a long time. Drops of rain began to fall, and the wind moaned
with an almost human note around the pyramids and old walls. The rain
increased a little, but it never fell in abundance. It and the wind were
very cold, and Ned drew the serape very closely about his body. He was
anxious now for time to pass fast, because he was beginning to feel
afraid, not of the Mexicans, but of the dead city, and the ghosts of
those vanished long ago, although he knew there were no such things. But
the human note in the wind grew until it was like a shriek, and this
shriek was to him a warning that he must go. The pyramid had been his
salvation, but his time there was at an end.

He drew the sombrero far down over his eyes, and once more calculated
the chances. He spoke Spanish well, and he spoke its Mexican variations
equally well. If they saw him he might be able to pass for a Mexican. He
must succeed.

He lowered himself from the crowning platform of the pyramid and began
the descent. The cold rain pattered upon him and his body was weak from
privation, but his spirit was strong, and with steady hand and foot he
went down. He paused several times to look at the camp. Five or six
fires still burned there, but they flickered wildly in the wind and
rain. He judged that the sentinels would not watch well. For what must
they watch, there in the heart of their own country?

But as he approached the bottom he saw two of these sentinels walking
back and forth, their bayonets reflecting a flicker now and then from
the flames. He saw also five or six large white tents, and he was quite
sure that the largest sheltered at that instant Martin Perfecto de Cos,
whom he wished very much to avoid. He intended, when he reached the
bottom, to keep as close as he could in the shadow of the pyramid, and
then seek the other side of the Teotihuacan.

The rain was still blown about by the wind, and it was very cold. But
the influence of both wind and rain were inspiring to the boy. They were
a tonic to body and mind, and he grew bolder as he came nearer to the
ground. At last he stepped upon the level earth, and stood for a little
while black and motionless against the pyramid.

He was aware that the cordon of Cos' army completely enclosed the
Pyramid of the Moon, the Pyramid of the Sun, the Calle de los Muertos
and the other principal ruins, and he now heard the sentinels much more
distinctly as they walked back and forth. Straining his eyes he could
see two of them, short, sallow men, musket on shoulder. The beat of one
lay directly across the path that he had chosen, reaching from the far
edge of the Pyramid of the Moon to a point about twenty yards away. He
believed that when this sentinel marched to the other end of his beat he
could slip by. At any rate, if he were seen he might make a successful
flight, and he slipped his hand to the handle of the machete in his
belt in order that he might be ready for resistance.

He saw presently two or three dark heaps near him, and as his eyes grew
used to the darkness he made out camp equipage and supplies. The
smallest heap which was also nearest to him, consisted of large metal
canteens for water, such as soldiers of that day carried. His thirst
suddenly made itself manifest again. Doubtless those canteens contained
water, and his body which wanted water so badly cried aloud for it.

It was not recklessness but a burning thirst which caused him to creep
toward the little heap of canteens at the imminent risk of being
discovered. When he reached them he lay flat on the ground and took one
from the top. He knew by its lack of weight that it was empty, and he
laid it aside. Then he paused for a glance at the sentinel who was still
walking steadily on his beat, and whom he now saw very clearly.

He was disappointed to find the first canteen empty, but he was
convinced that some in that heap must contain water, and he would
persevere. The second and third failed him in like manner, but he would
yet persevere. The fourth was heavy, and when he shook it gently he
heard the water plash. That thirst at once became burning and
uncontrollable. The cry of his body to be assuaged overpowered his will,
and while deadly danger menaced he unscrewed the little mouthpiece and
drank deep and long. It was not cold and perhaps a little mud lurked at
the bottom of the canteen, but like the gift of the water palm it
brought fresh life and strength.

He put down the canteen half empty and took another from the heap. It,
too, proved to be filled, and he hung it around neck and shoulder by the
strap provided for that purpose. He could have found no more precious
object for the dry regions through which he intended to make his
journey.

Ned went back toward the pyramid, but his joy over finding the water
made him a little careless. Great fragments of stone lay about
everywhere, and his foot slipped on a piece of black basalt. He fell and
the metal of his canteen rang against the stone.

He sprang to his feet instantly, but the sentinel had taken the alarm
and as Ned's sombrero had slipped back he saw the fair face. He knew
that it was the face of no Mexican, and shouting "Gringo!" he fired
straight at him. Luckily, haste and the darkness prevented good aim,
although he was at short range. But Ned felt the swish of the bullet so
close to him that every nerve jumped, and he jumped with them. The first
jump took him half way to the pyramid and the next landed him at its
base. There the second nearest sentinel fired at him and he heard the
bullet flatten itself against the stone.

Fortunately for Ned, the silent, thoughtful lad, he had often tried to
imagine what he would do in critical junctures, and now, despite the
terrible crisis, he was able to take control of his nerves. He
remembered to pull the sombrero down over his face and to keep close to
the pyramid. The shots had caused an uproar in the camp. Men were
running about, lights were springing up, and officers were shouting
orders. A single fugitive among so many confused pursuers might yet pass
for one of them. Chance which had been against him was now for him. The
wind suddenly took a wilder sweep and the rain lashed harder. He left
the pyramid and darted behind a tumulus. He stood there quietly and
heard the uproar of the hunt at other points. Presently he slouched
away in the manner of a careless peon, with his serape drawn about chin
as well as body, for which the wind and the rain were a fitting excuse.
He also shouted and chattered occasionally with others, and none knew
that he was the Gringo at whom the two sentinels had fired.

Ned thought to make a way through the lines, but so many lights now
flared up on all the outskirts that he saw it was impossible.

He turned back again to the side of the pyramid, where he was almost
hidden by débris and foliage. Two or three false alarms had been sounded
on the other side of the great structure, and practically the whole mob
of searchers was drawn away in that direction. He formed a quick
decision. He would reascend the pyramid. And he would take with him a
water supply in the canteen that he still carried over his shoulder. He
began to climb, and he noticed as he went up that it was almost the
exact point at which he had ascended before.

He heard the tumult below, caught glimpses of lights flashing here and
there, and he ascended eagerly. He was almost half way up when he came
face to face with a Mexican soldier who carried in his hand a small
lantern. The soldier, the only one perhaps who had suspected the pyramid
as a place of refuge, had come at another angle, and there on a terrace
the two had met.

They were not more than three feet apart. Ned had put his machete back
in his belt that he might climb with more ease, but he hit out at once
with his clenched right hand. The blow took the Mexican full between the
eyes and toppling over backward he dropped the lantern. Then he slid on
the narrow terrace and with an instinctive cry of terror fell. Ned was
seized with horror and took a hasty glance downward. He was relieved
when he saw that the man, grasping at projections and outgrowing
vegetation, was sliding rather than falling, and would not be hurt
seriously.

He turned to his own case. There lay the lantern on the stone, still
glowing. Below rose the tumult, men coming to his side of the pyramid,
drawn by his cry. He could no longer reach the top of the pyramid
without being seen, but he knew another way. He snatched up the lantern,
tucked it under his serape and made for the opening which he had noticed
in the side of the pyramid at his first ascent. It was scarcely ten feet
away, and he boldly stepped in, a thing that he would never have dared
to do had it not been for the happy chance of the lantern.

His foot rested on solid stone, and he stood wholly in the dark. Yet the
uproar came clearly to his ears. It was a certainty now that more
soldiers would ascend the pyramid looking for him, but he believed that
ignorance and superstition would keep them from entering it.

The air that came to his nostrils out of the unknown dark was cold and
clean, but he did not yet dare to take out his lantern. He felt
cautiously in front of him with one foot and touched a stone step below.
He also touched narrow walls with his outstretched hand. He descended to
the step, and then, feeling sure that the light of his lantern could not
be seen from without, he took it from under his serape and held it as
far in front of him as he could. A narrow flight of stone steps led
onward and downward further than he could see, and, driven by imminent
necessity, he walked boldly down them.

The way was rough with the decay of time from which stone itself cannot
escape, but he always steadied himself with one hand against the wall.
The stone was very cold and Ned had the feeling that he was in a tomb.
Once more he had that overwhelming sense of old, old things, of things
as old as Egypt. At another time, despite every effort of reason, he
would have thrilled with superstitious terror, but now it was for his
life, and down he went, step by step.

The air remained pure like that of great caves in the States, and Ned
did not stop until a black void seemed to open almost before him when he
drew back in affright. Calming himself he held up the lantern and looked
at the void. It was a deep and square well, its walls faced as far as he
could see with squared stones. His lantern revealed no water in the
depths and he fancied that it had something to do with ceremonials,
perhaps with sacrifice. There was a way around the well, but it was
narrow and he chose to go no further. Instead he crouched on the steps
where he was safe from a fall, and put the lantern beside him.

It was an oil lamp. Had he possessed any means of relighting it he would
have blown it out, and sought sleep in the dark, but once out, out
always, and he moved it into a little niche of the wall, where no sudden
draught could get at it, and where its hidden light would be no beacon
to any daring Mexican who might descend the stairway.

The sense of vast antiquity was still with the boy, but it did not
oppress him now as it might have done at another time. His feeling of
relief, caused by his escape from the Mexicans, was so great that it
created, for the time at least, a certain buoyancy of the mind. The
unknown depths of the ancient pyramid were at once a shelter and a
protection. He folded the serape, in order to make as soft a couch as
possible, and soon fell asleep.

When Ned awoke he was lying in exactly the same position on the steps,
and the lantern was still burning in the niche. He had no idea how long
he had slept, or whether it was day or night, but he did not care. He
took the full canteen and drank. It was an unusually large canteen and
it contained enough, if he used economy, to last him two days. The cool
recesses of the pyramid's interior did not engender thirst like its
blazing summit. Then he ate, but whether breakfast, dinner or supper he
did not know, nor did he care.

He was tempted to go up to the entrance of the stairway and see what was
going forward in the camp, but he resisted the impulse. For the sake of
caution he triumphed over curiosity, and remained a long time on the
steps, beside the niche in which his lamp sat. Then he began to
calculate how much longer the oil would last, and he placed the time at
about thirty hours. Surely some decisive event would happen in his favor
before the last drop was burned.

After an interminable time the air on the stairway seemed to him to be
growing colder, and he inferred that night had come. Taking the lantern
he climbed the steps and peered out at the ancient doorway. He saw
lights below, and he could discern dimly the shapes of tents.
Disappointed, he returned to his place on the steps, and, after another
long wait, fell asleep again. When he awoke he calculated by the amount
of oil left in the lamp that at least twelve hours had passed since his
previous awakening.

Once more he made a great effort of the will in order to achieve a
conquest over curiosity and impatience. He would not return to the
entrance until the oil had only an hour more to burn. Necessity had
proved so stern a master that he was able to keep his resolution. Many
long, long hours passed and sometimes he dozed or slept, but he did not
go to the entrance. The oil at last marked the final hour, and, taking
up the lamp, he went back to the entrance.

Ned looked out and then gave a cry of joy. It was broad daylight, but
the army was gone, soldiers, horses, tents, everything. The Calle de los
Muertos was once more what its name meant. Silence and desolation had
regained the ruined city. He blew out the lantern and set it down at the
opening. It had served him well. Then he went out and climbed again to
the summit of the pyramid, from which he examined the valley long and
well.

He saw no signs of human life anywhere. Traces of the camp remained in
abundance, but the army itself had vanished. There were no lurking camp
followers to make him trouble. He descended to the ground, and stood a
while, drawing in deep draughts of the fresh daylight air. It had not
been oppressive in the pyramid, but there is nothing like the open sky
above. He went down to the Teotihuacan, and, choosing a safe place,
bathed in its waters. Then he resumed the flight across the hills which
had been delayed so long. He knew by the sun that it was morning not far
advanced, and he wished to travel many miles before night. He saw
abundant evidences on the great highway that the army was marching
toward Vera Cruz, and as before he traveled on a line parallel with it,
but at least a mile away. He passed two sheep herders, but he displayed
the machete, and whistling carelessly went on. They did not follow, and
he was sure that they took him for a bandit whom it would be wise to let
alone.

Ned wandered on for two or three days. In one of his turnings among the
mountains he lost the Vera Cruz highway, and came out again upon a wide,
sandy plain, dotted with scattered cactus. As he was crossing it a
Norther came up, and blew with great fierceness. Sand was driven into
his face with such force that it stung like shot. The cold became
intense, and if it had not been for the serape he might have perished.

The storm was still blowing when he reached the far edge of the plain,
and came into extremely rough country, with patches of low, thorny
forest. Here he found a dilapidated bark hut, evidently used at times by
Mexican herdsmen, and, thankful for such shelter, he crept into it and
fell asleep. When he awoke he felt very weak. He had eaten the last of
his food seven or eight hours before.

Driven by desperate need, Ned ate wild fruits, and, for a while, was
refreshed, but that night he fell ill, suffering greatly from internal
pains. He was afraid at first that he had poisoned himself, and he knew
that he had eaten something not used for food, but by morning the pains
were gone, although he was much weaker than before.

Now he felt for the first time the pangs of despair. It was a full two
hundred miles yet to Vera Cruz, and he was in the heart of a hostile
country. He did not have the strength of a child left, and the chance
that he could deliver his message of warning to the Texans seemed to
have gone. He rambled about all that day, light-headed at times, and,
toward evening, he fell into a stupor. Unable to go any further, he sank
down beside a rock, and lapsed wholly into unconsciousness.




CHAPTER VI

THE MARCH WITH COS


When Ned came to himself he was surrounded by men, and at first he
thought he was back among his Texans. He was in a vague and dreamy state
that was not unpleasant, although he was conscious of a great weakness.
He knew that he was lying on the ground upon his own serape, and that
another serape was spread over him. In a little while mind and vision
grew more definite and he saw that the soldiers were Mexicans. After his
long endurance and ingenuity on the pyramid he had practically walked
into their hands. But such was his apathy of mind and body that it
roused no great emotion in him. He closed his eyes for a little while,
and then fresh strength poured into his veins. When he opened his eyes
again his interest in life and his situation was of normal keenness.

They were in a little valley and the soldiers, lancers, seemed to number
about two hundred. Their horses were tethered near them, and their
lances were stacked in glittering pyramids. It was early morning.
Several men were cooking breakfast for the whole troop at large fires.
The far edge of the little valley was very rocky and Ned inferred that
he had fallen there by a big outcropping of stone, and that the
soldiers, looking around for firewood, had found him. But they had not
treated him badly, as the serape spread over his body indicated.

Feeling so much better he sat up. The odor of the cooking made him
realize again that he was fiercely hungry. A Mexican brought him a large
tin plate filled with beans and meat chopped small. He ate slowly
although only an effort of the will kept him from devouring the food
like a famished wild animal. The Mexican who had brought him the plate
stood by and watched him, not without a certain sympathy on his face.
Several more Mexicans approached and looked at him with keen curiosity,
but they did not say or do anything that would offend the young Gringo.
Knowing that it was now useless, Ned no longer made any attempt to
conceal his nationality which was evident to all. He finished the plate
and handed it back to the Mexican.

"Many thanks," he said in the native tongue.

"More?" said the soldier, looking at him with understanding.

"I could, without hurting myself," replied Ned with a smile.

A second plate and a cup of water were brought to him. He ate and drank
in leisurely fashion, and began to feel a certain relief. He imagined
that he would be returned to imprisonment in the City of Mexico with Mr.
Austin. At any rate, he had made a good attempt and another chance might
come.

An officer dressed in a very neat and handsome uniform approached and
the other Mexicans fell back respectfully. This man was young, not more
than thirty-two or three, rather tall, fairer than most of his race, and
with a singularly open and attractive face. His dress was that of a
colonel, and the boy knew at once that he was commander of the troop. He
smiled down at Ned, and Ned, despite himself, smiled back.

"I know you," said he, speaking perfect English. "You are Edward Fulton,
the lad who was held in the prison with Stephen Austin, the Texan, the
lad who starved himself that he might slip between the bars of his
window. There was much talk at the capital about it, and you were not
without admirers. You showed so much courage and resource that you
deserved to escape, but we could not let you go."

"I got lost and I was without food."

"Rather serious obstacles. They have held many a boy and man. But since
I know so much about you and you know nothing about me I will tell you
who I am. My name is Juan Nepomuceno Almonte, and I am a colonel in the
service of Mexico and of our great Santa Anna. I was educated in that
United States of yours, Texan, though you call yourself. That is why I
speak the English that you hear. I have friends, too, among your
people."

"Well, Colonel Almonte," said Ned, "since I had to be recaptured, I'm
glad I fell into your hands."

"I wish I could keep you in them," he said, "but I am under the command
of General Cos, and I have to rejoin the main force which he leads."

Ned understood. Cos was a man of another type. But he resolved not to
anticipate trouble. Almonte again looked at him curiously, and then
leaning forward said confidentially:

"Tell me, was it you who knocked our soldier down on the side of the
pyramid and took his lantern? If it is true, it can't do you any harm to
acknowledge it now."

"Yes," replied Ned with some pride, "it was I. I came upon him suddenly
and I was as much surprised as he. I hit out on the impulse of the
moment, and the blow landed in exactly the right place. I hope he was
not much hurt."

"He wasn't," replied Almonte, laughing with deep unction. "He was
pretty well covered with bruises and scratches, but he forgot them in
the awful fright you gave him. He took you to be some demon, some
mysterious Aztec god out of a far and dim past, who had smitten him with
lightning, because he presumed to climb upon a sacred pyramid. But some
of us who were not so credulous, perhaps because we did not have his
bruises and scratches, searched all the sides and the top of the
pyramid. We failed to find you and we knew that you could not get
through our lines. Now, will you tell me where you were?"

His tone was so intent and eager that Ned could not keep from laughing.
Besides, the boy had a certain pride in the skill, daring and resource
with which he had eluded the men of Cos.

"Did you look inside the pyramid?" he asked.

"Inside it?"

"Yes, inside. There's an opening sixty or seventy feet above the ground.
I took your man's lantern when he dropped it and entered. There's a
stairway, leading down to a deep, square well, and there's something
beyond the well, although I don't know what. I stayed in there until
your army went away. Before that I had been for two or three days on top
of the pyramid, where a little water palm gave up its life to save me."

Almonte regarded him with wonder.

"I am not superstitious myself--that is, not unnecessarily so," he said,
"but yours must be a lucky star. After all that, you should have
escaped, and your present capture must be a mere delay. You will slip
from us again."

"I shall certainly try," said Ned hopefully.

"It is bound to come true," said Almonte. "All the omens point that
way."

Ned smiled. Almonte, young, brilliant and generous, had made him almost
feel as if he were a guest and not a prisoner. He did not discern in him
that underlying strain of Spanish cruelty, which passion might bring to
the surface at any moment. It might be due to his youth, or it might be
due to his American education.

"We march in an hour," said Almonte. "We are to rejoin General Cos on
the Vera Cruz road, but that will not occur for two or three days.
Meanwhile, as the way is rough and you are pretty weak, you can ride on
a burro. Sorry I can't get you a horse, but our lancers have none to
spare. Still, you'll find a burro surer of foot and more comfortable
over the basalt and lava."

Ned thanked him for his courtesy. He liked this cheerful Mexican better
than ever. In another hour they started, turning into the Vera Cruz
road, and following often the path by which great Cortez had come. Ned's
burro, little but made of steel, picked the way with unerring foot and
never stumbled once. He rode in the midst of the lancers, who were full
that day of the Latin joy that came with the sun and the great panorama
of the Mexican uplands. Now and then they sang songs of the South,
sometimes Spanish and sometimes Indian, Aztec, or perhaps even Toltec.
Ned felt the influence. Once or twice he joined in the air without
knowing the words, and he would have been happy had it not been for his
thoughts of the Texans.

The courtesy and kindliness of Almonte must not blind him to the fact
that he was the bearer of a message to his own people. That message
could not be more important because its outcome was life and death, and
he watched all the time for a chance to escape. None occurred. The
lancers were always about him, and even if there were an opening his
burro, sure of foot though he might be, could not escape their strong
horses. So he bided his time, for the present, and shared in the gayety
of the men who rode through the crisp and brilliant southern air. All
the time they ascended, and Ned saw far below him valley after valley,
much the same, at the distance, as they were when Cortez and his men
first gazed upon them more than three hundred years before. Yet the look
of the land was always different from that to which he was used north of
the Rio Grande. Here as in the great valley of Tenochtitlan it seemed
ancient, old, old beyond all computation. Here and there, were ruins of
which the Mexican peons knew nothing. Sometimes these ruins stood out on
a bare slope, and again they were almost hidden by vegetation. In the
valleys Ned saw peons at work with a crooked stick as a plow, and once
or twice they passed swart