“So it ought to be. I learned the words in New Orleans. The music came from the heart of my mandolin. Listen, Senor!
“‘Row young oarsman, row, young oarsman,
Into the crypt of the night we float:
Fair, faint moonbeams wash and wander,
Wash and wander about the boat.
Not a fetter is here to bind us,
Love and memory lose their spell;
Friends that we have left behind us,
Prisoners of content,—farewell!’”
“You are a wizard, Luis, and I have had a sail with you. Now, come with us, and show those dandy soldiers from the Alamo how to dance.”
“Pardon! I have not yet ceased to cross myself at the affront of this morning. And the Senora Valdez is in the same mind as her husband. I should be received by her like a dog at mass. I am going to-morrow to the American colony on the Colorado.”
“Be careful, Luis. These Austin colonists are giving great trouble—there have been whispers of very strong measures. I speak as a friend.”
“My heart to yours! But let me tell you this about the Americans—their drum is in the hands of one who knows how to beat it.”
“As a matter of hearsay, are you aware that three detachments of troops are on their way from Mexico?”
“For Texas?”
“For Texas.”
“What are three detachments? Can a few thousand men put Texas under lock and key? I assure you not, Senor; but now I must say adieu!”