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It was noon!  Still and cold lay the four hundred forms upon the Plaza.  Even as they sank, so they slept.  No disturbing hand had misplaced one stiffened member.  The silence of death reigned around the murdered band.  A muffled figure swiftly stole down the now deserted streets, and hurrying to the Plaza, paused and gazed on the ruin and wreck that surrounded her.  Pools of blood were yet standing, and the earth was damp with gore.  One by one Inez turned the motionless forms, still the face she sought was not to be found.  She had almost concluded her search, when her eye fell on a prostrate form, closely wrapt in a long black cloak; she knelt and gazed into the upturned face, and a low cry of bitter anguish welled up and passed her colorless lips.  Gently she lifted the cloak, clasped by one icy hand:  the ball had pierced his side, and entered the heart.  So instantaneous had been his death that not a feature was convulsed.  The dark clustering hair was borne back from the broad white brow, the eyes closed as in deep sleep, the finely-cut lips just parted.  Pallid was the cheek, yet calm and noble beyond degree was the marble face on which Inez gazed.  She caught the cold hand to her lips, and laid her cheek near his mouth, that she might know and realize that his spirit had indeed joined Mary’s in the “land of rest.”  The icy touch extinguished every gleam of hope, and calmly she drew the cloak over the loved face, concealing every feature, then dropped her handkerchief upon the covered head, and drawing her mantilla like a shroud about her, went her way to wait for night and darkness.

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

“Well, Senorita Inez, what will you have?”

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

“Tell me first, Inez, if it is he who brought you here; who acted so nobly to me, and bade adieu to you but two days since?”