General Houston was still behind the centre—he was waving his old whitish hat and shouting, as if still bidding the infantry to hold their fire.
“Hold your fire, confound you! Hold your fire!” he roared.
The fluter was playing. “Will You Come to the Bower?” piped the notes, as waist high in the grass the long line swept on, with never a shout, and with the gold-fringed, glove-capped flag of the Newport Volunteers streaming in the breeze. The Twin Sisters spoke again, and advanced, their horses at a gallop.
There was a thud of hoofs close by Ernest. The horseman from the west had arrived. He was Deaf Smith. His horse was lathered with sweat, his swarthy face was dripping, he was blackened and muddy. Past Ernest he sped, struck the right of the line, flourishing his ax.
“Vince’s Bridge is down!” he screamed. “Fight for your lives, and remember the Alamo!”
Along the line he raced, reiterating his message. General Houston had spurred through the gap left by the artillery and was to the front, himself.
“Vince’s Bridge is down!” he repeated louder than Deaf Smith. “Charge! Charge! Remember the Alamo!”
A blare of voices which seemed to rock the prairie answered him.
“Remember the Alamo! Remember Goliad!”