“It gave the Mexican soldiers pleasure to tell us these things, and though we scarcely believed such treachery possible, we were very uneasy. On the eighth day after the surrender, a lovely Sunday morning, we were marched out of the fort on pretence of sending us to Louisiana; according to the articles of surrender, and we were in high spirits at the prospect. “But I noticed that we were surrounded by a double row of soldiers, and that made me suspicious. In a few moments, Fannin was marched into the centre, and told to sit down on a low stool. He felt that his hour had come. He took his watch and his purse, and gave them to some poor woman who stood outside lamenting and praying for the poor Americans. I shall never forget the calmness and brightness of his face. The Mexican colonel raised his sword, the drums beat, and the slaughter began. Fifty men at a time were shot; and those whom the guns missed or crippled, were dispatched with the bayonet or lance.” “You escaped. How?” “When the lips of the officer moved to give the order: Fire! I fell upon my face as if dead. As I lay, I was pierced by a bayonet through the shoulder, but I made no sign of life. After the execution, the camp followers came to rob the dead. A kind-hearted Mexican woman helped me to reach the river. I found a horse tied there, and I took it. I have been on the point of giving up life several times, but I met a man coming here with the news to Houston, and he helped me to hold out.” The doctor was trembling with grief and anger, and he felt Antonia’s hand on his shoulder. “My friend,” he whispered, “did you know JOHN WORTH?” “Who did not know him in Fannin’s camp? Any of us would have been glad to save poor Jack; and he had a friend who refused to live without him.” “Dare Grant?” “That was the man, young lady. Grant was a doctor, and the Mexicans wanted doctors. They offered him his life for his services, but he would not have it unless his friend’s life also was spared. They were shot holding each other’s hands, and fell together. I was watching their faces at the moment. There wasn’t a bit of fear in them.” The Senora rose, and came as swiftly as a spirit to them. She looked like a woman walking in her sleep. She touched the stranger. “I heard you. You saw Dare Grant die. But my boy! My boy! Where is my Juan?” “Maria, darling.” “Don’t speak, Roberto. Where is my Juan? Juan Worth?” “Madam. I am sorry enough, God knows. Juan Worth--was shot.” Then the wretched mother threw up her hands, and with an awful cry fell to the ground. It was hours ere she recovered consciousness, and consciousness only restored her to misery.