In 1867 I lived in my home on San Antonio street, two blocks west of where the Court House now stands. There were two rooms opening on the street, one of which had a spare bed in it for guests and was never used by me. Back of this room, with a partition door between and with a door and window giving into the back yard, was my own private room—the room in which I habitually slept. My brother slept in another part of the house. Of course it was my habit to lock the door opening into the back yard, around which yard there was an adobe wall about six feet high. I had some bitter enemies among the Americans at that time, some avowed and others secret, as I afterward learned. On the night in question I retired as usual in my own room, and, strangely enough, on _this_ night of all nights, must have neglected to lock the door. I awoke during the night and for some reason which I have never been able to explain to myself, a fancy seized me to sleep in the guest’s room. I went there, taking my pistol and candle, leaving my watch on the table and all my other belongings handy for any one who might come to take them, provided _theft_ were the object. I supposed the back door to be locked, and closed the partition door between the guest’s room and the bedroom I had left. I awoke again with a consciousness that some one was in the room. I had not heard any sound. I could not possibly see anything, yet I was _sure_ that I was not alone. I was wide awake, was not alarmed; my feeling was rather one of wonder. I said aloud: “Wait a moment; I will strike a light.” I did so, and saw a man, in his shirt sleeves, going through the partition door into the bedroom, and closing it after him. I did not see his face. I seized my pistol and followed through my bedroom and heard some one scramble over the wall and into the street. Rain had fallen that night, and any man, in climbing into the back yard, must have soiled his hands with mud and dirt from the wall. I called my brother and we found that no article of my belongings had been disturbed, but my pillow and bed clothes were smeared and blackened, and we distinctly saw the prints of a man’s fingers! The object was clearly not theft. It is not usual to awaken a man to steal his property. _That man’s hand surely held a knife and he was feeling for my heart!_ I have always felt sure that the man who entered my room was not an enemy, but a hireling. But who was the instigator, and what the motive? That remains a mystery to this day. But to me a greater mystery still is _why_ did I change my room that night? _How_ did I know that there was some one in the room where I was sleeping, when I could neither see him nor hear him? “Quien sabe”! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ FATE OF MY CUSTOM-HOUSE DEPUTIES.