[Illustration: Edward Burleson.] This reason did not satisfy the soldiers. They were defiant and angry almost to mutiny. Their indignation knew no bounds when they were told that the camp was about to be broken and the siege raised. There was a loud clamor of rage and disappointment. During this scene the missing scout returned in company with a deserter from San Antonio, who confirmed the report of the weakness of the defenses and the discontent of the Mexican garrison. Benjamin Milam, upon this, had a word or two with General Burleson in his tent; then he stepped out, bared his head, and, waving his hat with a loud hurrah, demanded in a ringing voice: “Who will go with old Ben Milam into San Antonio?” Three hundred volunteers with an answering shout sprang to the front. The same night (December 4) by twos and threes, singly, and in squads, the storming party stole silently into an old mill on the road between the camp and the town. Milam, the chief in command, told them off into two divisions: one to be led by himself and the other by Colonel Frank W. Johnson. Silent still and like phantoms, the double line took up its march over the intervening ground and slipped into San Antonio. A little earlier, Colonel Neill had started from camp with a detachment to make a pretended attack on the fortress of the Alamo. He opened fire before daylight and continued to hold the enemy’s attention until the assaulting party could enter the town. When the sound of their guns apprised him that this was done, he returned to the camp, where General Burleson kept his men under arms, ready to march at any moment to Milam’s assistance. Milam and Johnson, guided by Deaf Smith, drew their men swiftly through the dark and silent streets. Suddenly a sentinel gave the alarm. A shot from Deaf Smith’s rifle silenced him forever; and the Texans dashed to cover. The Mexicans poured out of their quarters and attacked them furiously in the houses of Señors de la Garza and Veramendi, where they had taken shelter. They returned the fire with their accustomed coolness, picking off their assailants with unerring aim through loop-holes cut in the thick walls, or from the flat parapeted roofs. For the next five days the Texans were engaged in fighting and burrowing their way steadily toward the Military Plaza. With cannon booming and scattering grape and canister among them, and the rattle of small arms in their ears, they dug trenches along the streets from corner to corner; they battered down doors; with crowbars and axes they pried openings in walls—fighting the while, now at long range, now in deadly hand-to-hand encounters, and always with defiant smiles on their powder-blackened faces. The weather was wet and cold; the dismal streets were slippery with blood and choked with the débris of battle. Above, in the smoky air flapped from the church tower a black flag which meant “No quarter.”